


un immense amour a traversé ma peur

by wolfchester



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, HISTORY NERD ALERT, Slow Burn, The Whole Gang's Here - Freeform, allie is a mf princess, and french, au set in the 1400s, bc you KNOW t swift just Gets mid-1400s teen angst, campbell is an evil duke, clark luke and jason are harry's knights, during/after the hundred years war, each chapter title is a song from 'lover', gordie is the ambassador to france n allie's bff, harry is an asshole prince, helena and becca are her badass ladies-in-waiting, is this in-character or just me projecting medieval fantasies ?? WHO KNOWS, kelly elle and bean are harry's sisters ladies at the french court, like have you HEARD 'love story', not entirely accurate to history though but i'm trying my best, rating will change as we go on, sam is a duke and grizz is his "companion"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-10-17 01:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20612687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchester/pseuds/wolfchester
Summary: allie is the english princess allison of the house of pressman, in love with a young servant, will. harry is the french dauphin henry de bingham, heir to the french crown. the year is 1454.following the hundred years’ war, a treaty is arranged between the nations of france and england. the princess must leave her life and her love behind to journey to a strange country and carry out her duty to england: marrying a man she neither likes nor wants, and who doesn’t think much of her himself, to bring peace to europe.(partly inspired by philippa gregory's stories 'the constant princess' and 'the white princess', which are basically historical fan fiction and i love it)





	1. hope i never lose you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nosy sisters, forbidden romances, and marriage plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back on my hallie bullshit with a practically novel-length royalty au om GGGG what am i doing
> 
> you want princesses and princes? you got it.  
you want 15th century england and france? you got it.  
you want an arranged marriage, a enemies to friends to lovers slow-burn romance, and a wedding? you got it, buddy!  
you want harry bingham speaking french? bitch you GOT IT
> 
> i'm so passionate abt this story tho man it's been so easy to write. i'm still getting on with 'a million little battles' tho don't worry (no one was worrying oops)
> 
> the title is from the song 'hunger of the pine' by alt-j and basically translates to "a great love has crossed my fear" and i love it. also french, because harry's a french prince (for those who are interested, 'dauphin' is just the name they gave the heir apparent to the throne of france and means dolphin bc, idk, europeans are weird No Offense
> 
> all the chapter titles come from songs from taylor swift's album 'lover' bc i'm Obsessed w it atm mmm yes
> 
> enjoy all the juicy drama this fic will hold, my friends xoxo
> 
> p.s. ngl i don't like will AT ALL like he's such a wet blanket, badly developed character, treats allie pretty shittily and kelly even worse, but......he's allie's kinda first love and best friend so i didn't want to trash him TOO much in this fic. so i made him kinda nice and him n allie kinda sweet. the only reason allie goes for harry anyway is because she can't have will - but imho that turns into some genuine feelings for harry and mmmm can't wait for next season ..... hehe ----- so i kinda tried to make that relationship dynamic work in this au too
> 
> song of the chapter is 'cornelia street'

Most mornings, she will sit at her bedroom window and watch people move about the gardens below. 

She will sit and stare at the flowering shrubs and tall trees, feel the cool breeze that comes in off the Thames and dream of another life. A life where she could be free of the palace, free of her family, free to love who she does and live how she wants.

Freedom will never come for her. Not in a real sense. Yes, she lives in luxury above every citizen of England and, perhaps, the world. But she is Princess Allison of the House of Pressman, second daughter of King James and Queen Amanda. Her duty to England will always come first. 

Today, Princess Allison, lovingly nicknamed Allie by her parents, leans against the wooden frame of that familiar window and looks out over the Westminster Palace grounds. She sweeps her gaze across the gardens, searching for someone in particular. Servants tend to the flowers lining stone paths. Ladies of the court walk through archways in full skirts of green and blue, laughing privately with each other, not a care in the world. A young page scurries from one side of the courtyard to another, holding his cap to his head so it doesn’t fall off as he runs.

Then--_ ah, there he is _. Tawny skin, dark hair in tight curls, strong arms. Blinding smile.

He’s stretching to reach fruit from an apple tree far away at the edge of the gardens, much too far for her to call his name. Instead, she settles for a whistle.

Allie’s father, King James, taught her to whistle with her fingers when she accompanied him on a hunting trip many years ago. Not caring about how unladylike it looks, she places her fingers between her lips and blows a two-note tune. 

The high-pitched sound carries across the grounds, echo bouncing off the castle walls. No one looks up to see where the noise is coming from—no one but him. 

Though he’s far away, she watches as he turns his head in the direction of her window and smiles. He whistles the twin opposite to her own melody and although the sound is faint, it’s like she’s hearing it as clear and loud as if he were standing right next to her.

Oh, Will. Her Will: the servant boy who works in the kitchens and who has lived under the same roof as Allie almost her whole life. Her best friend, closest confidant.

_ Lover _.

Forbidden lover, that is. Their whole relationship is secret—and must always be kept that way. Allie wishes it didn’t have to be like this. That she could walk with Will in the garden as her equal and no one would bat an eye. Instead, they settle for child-like whistles across the courtyard and evening trysts in rented rooms, bribing doormen to keep their secret. 

She watches Will a little while longer, admiring the length of his body as he stretches to pick an apple and how the sun glints off of his golden skin. Lost, for a moment, in the glow of teenage infatuation.

“What are you doing?” Her older sister’s voice startles Allie. She backs away from the window and crosses her arms protectively over her chest. 

“What? Nothing,” Allie replies, begging the blush that’s rising up her cheeks to retreat.

Cassandra has eyes like a hunting hawk and an intelligence their father calls ‘worrisome for a woman.’ She doesn’t miss a thing. “What are you looking at?” she asks, stepping across Allie’s bedroom and towards the open window, the skirt of her deep orange dress brushing against the wooden floor. 

“I’m just--looking at the garden--”

The exact moment Cassandra peeks her head out the window to survey the grounds, Will turns and looks up at Allie’s bedroom window, shading the sun from his eyes. Cassandra notices this (hawk-eyes, remember?) and sighs.

“Allie,” she says, in the most condescending of tones. “What did I tell you about this?”

Allie’s all too used to being told off by her older sister. She rolls her eyes. Cassandra’s the only one who knows about Allie and Will, and if she wants it to stay that way, she better not be too unkind. Even though Allie would love to tell her to leave her alone right now. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” 

Cassandra raises an eyebrow. “Be careful. You don’t want Mother or Father finding out about you and him.” 

“I know. They won’t. Now, did you come here just to spy on me? Or do you have something to say?”

“Actually, yes. Mother asked me to come and get you. They want to eat breakfast with us in Father’s chambers today.”

Allie scrunches up her nose in confusion. “Really? We never do that.”

Her sister shrugs. “Must be a special occasion.”

* * *

“The bread is good today,” Queen Amanda notes, brushing a crumb off the corner of her mouth. “Very fresh.”

Allie smiles to herself. Will’s the one usually in charge of baking bread in the palace kitchens. She imagines his strong hands kneading the bread, wiping sweat from his brow.

Tonight, she’ll go in disguise to London town and meet him in a private room of a local inn. They’ll share food, conversations, kisses, touches. Not sleep, unfortunately. No, Allie will have to sneak back into her bedchambers before the sun comes up. 

“Allie, my dear, are you listening?” the King’s voice is soft but firm, pulling her out of her reverie.

“Hmm?” Allie looks up at her parents and sister, who are all staring. Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows on one end of the room, lighting up a sort of halo around Cassandra’s head. It’s fitting.

“You’ve been smiling down at your oats,” her mother says. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing important.”

Cassandra, halo in her hair, shoots her a pointed look. Like she knows Allie’s thinking of a certain kitchenhand. _ Oh, please _ , Allie thinks, _ like you’re so innocent. _ She’s heard the rumours of her sister meeting in secret with Lord Astley’s son Richard--a known womaniser who is currently betrothed to someone decidedly _ not _ Cassandra. 

“Well, you best listen to your father then,” the Queen continues. “He has important news.” 

The King takes a sip of his ale before speaking. He looks serious, dark brows drawn tightly together. The room falls quiet. Allie is always in awe of the way her father commands an audience without having to say a word. “You both know that we have been at war with France for years.” Both girls nod. “Well, as of this week, we are now at peace.” Cassandra inhales sharply and Allie lets out a gasp of delight.

“Really, Father?” she says, a smile forming on her lips. “How did you manage that?”

The King’s face relaxes a little. “With good fighting men and some diplomatic talent.”

“That’s wonderful, Father, really,” Cassandra says. “Everyone will be so glad that the wars are over. The whole country will sing your praises. France will, too.”

“Thank you, my dear,” James says. He clasps his hands together and places them on the table with a small thud. “But there are some things to do--some things to arrange--before we can announce this peace to the people.” He looks intently at Allie, squinting his eyes a little, like he’s measuring her up. Self-consciously, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The curl springs back instantly, unable to be tamed. Her father’s gaze moves and settles on her sister, who is sitting straight-backed in the dining chair with not a hair out of place, hands in her lap. He smiles.

“Cassandra, my darling. You know your mother and I have been seeking to procure you a match with someone who will equal you in handsomeness and intellect, in a position where you will be able to serve your country. We believe--” he reaches across the table to gently hold his wife’s hand, “--that we have found that man for you. Well,” he chuckles, “he’s really just fallen into our lap. My dear, the King and Queen of France have agreed to our proposal of marriage between you and their son, the Dauphin.”

“The Dauphin?” Cassandra breaths. “Oh, Father, that’s--that’s--”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” her mother beams.

Allie steals a look at her sister. Cassandra is notoriously hard to read. She always keeps a polite facade with her beautiful smile, eternally elegant. She’ll never express anger or sadness or irritation in public. Ever. Allie is completely the opposite. _ You wear your heart on your sleeve _, her mother often says. 

Right now, however, Allie can tell her sister is not pleased, even if her parents are not insightful enough to notice. Cassandra’s jaw is clenched. Her forehead is furrowed. Below the table her hands grip tightly bunches of her dress. Despite her frustration, she speaks with such grace.

“Mother; Father. I appreciate all you have done for me, but--” she clears her throat. “You have always told me that one day I would be Queen of England. That this was my destiny. What becomes of that destiny now?”

“I know, my dear. But now, you will be Queen of France!” the King exclaims, letting go of his wife’s hand to take up his eldest daughter’s. “The House of Bingham governs almost all of Europe. You will have a happy life, and you _ will _be a queen.”

“Thank your father, darling,” the Queen nods. “He has worked very hard for this.”

Allie watches her sister swallow hard and reply, with a tight-lipped smile, “Thank you, Father. This is an honour.”

* * *

“I can’t _ believe _ this!” Cassandra hisses, pacing back and forth along Allie’s bedroom floor. “I can’t believe it. I’m supposed to be _ Queen _ , Allie! Of England, not France!” She turns to the younger princess with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. Someone, she still manages to look pretty. “Does he really expect me to travel all the way to France to marry a man I’ve never met--who I’ve heard is an _ ass _, by the way?”

Amused, Allie replies, “I’ve never seen you so up in arms about this, sister. You’re usually so...obedient.” She leans against the pillows on her bed and folds her hands into her lap, enjoying the spectacle.

“Well, I don’t feel like being obedient right now,” Cassandra snarls, then continues to pace. The room falls silent for a few moments, save for the dull clomping of the elder Princess’ slippers on the hardwood floor. Then Cassandra sighs and exclaims, “What I really don’t understand is why _ I _have to go to France, and why it can’t be you?”

Knowing her sister as well as she does, Allie doesn’t attempt to answer this somewhat rhetorical question. Cassandra rambles on.

“It makes sense to send the younger sister, doesn’t it? I mean--no offence, Allie--but you’re not exactly the queenly type, are you?”

“Cassandra, you _ wound _ me!” Allie exclaims, placing a hand over her heart in faux hurt. 

Her sister just dismisses her with a wave of her hand. “You know what I mean. Father’s always telling you off for one thing or another. I, on the other hand--”

“Are perfect,” Allie says with a roll of her eyes. “I know.”

Cassandra stops pacing and turns to the other girl with a grimace. “That’s _ not _ what I was going to say. I was saying that _ I _ , on the other hand, have been trained to be a queen for my whole life. I know the ins and outs of the English economic system, the politics. I know the name of every duke and duchess. I can speak four languages, _ muchas gracias. _ You spend your time painting in the garden and frolicking around with that kitchenhand doing who knows _ what _!”

“This is starting to feel personal,” Allie jokes, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend you, I promise.” Cassandra collapses onto the bed next to her sister and tucks her head into Allie’s shoulder. 

Allie shrugs and gently strokes her sister’s hair. “It’s okay. It’s all the truth, anyway.”

The two sisters rest there for a long moment on the dark red bedspread, golden heads touching, looking forlornly at the bedroom wall. Allie is struck by a sense of sadness as a thought she hadn’t considered since breakfast enters her head: Cassandra’s betrothal to the Dauphin means soon she will be leaving for the far-away shores of France. Allie may never see her older sister again. 

A very tiny and shameful part of her is almost _ glad _. Perhaps the King and Queen will cease to compare the two sisters in everything they do. Perhaps Allie will become the most-loved daughter again, like she was when she was a child, before she began to have a mind of her own. Perhaps she will no longer walk perpetually in Cassandra’s shadow.

A much larger and more painful part of her heart aches for the future loss of Cassandra. That there will be no more conversations at the window in the mornings, no more reading together by firelight, no more walks in the garden. She may even miss Cassandra’s lectures about manners and reprimands against sneaking out to visit Will in the evenings.

Feeling a swell of love for her sister, Allie reaches across to hold her hand. “You’re going to go, though, aren’t you?” she asks softly, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Cassandra sighs, leaning further into the younger girl’s shoulder. “Yes, I will.”

* * *

Allie and Will lay bathed in soft candlelight, his fingers twirling flaxen curls around and around. Allie tucks herself into his bare chest, pulling the bed’s blanket up over herself. 

The room they’ve rented in secret is nothing splendid--merely a small bed, a short wooden table, and a shuttered window--but it is the only room in the city that has proved to be the safest place for the two of them to meet. It’s only a short walk from the palace, and the innkeeper is keen to receive a bribe for his silence and, fortunately, blind. In an hour or so, Allie will venture out into town with her cunning disguise (dress stolen from the kitchen’s laundry, head covering from old handkerchiefs sewn together) and sneak back into her bedchamber without being seen. It’s an art she’s perfected for a year now. She hasn’t been caught yet, thank God.

This is the perfect space for the princess and the kitchenhand to come together, to wrap themselves up in each other’s arms, to share their triumphs and pains of the day, to fall in love. 

Now is such a time to share details of her life with him. And so she does. “The war is over.”

“I heard.”

“Cassandra is leaving for France. She is to marry the Dauphin.”

“I figured.”

Allie raises her head to look quizzically at her beau. “Hmm? How did you find out? Father only discussed it with us this morning.”

Will shakes his head and smiles, bittersweet. “No, I only guessed that would happen. A marriage always succeeds these sorts of things.” He pulls her close and whispers, “I just hoped it wouldn’t be you.”

The silence that stretches between them after Will’s admission is telling of the nature of their relationship. One day, Allie _ will _ be married off, like Cassandra, to another noble or prince. Will and Allie can never--and will never--be together as husband or wife, like both of them wish. 

They are centuries too early for that. 

Allie closes her eyes and relishes in Will’s soft, tickling breath on her hair, and tries to forget the world she is a part of.


	2. the damsels are depressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a death, a fight, an unwelcome destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had some Lovely with a capital L comments about this fic lately - so here's another chapter!
> 
> when i said this was a slow burn, i wasn't lyin...we won't meet harry until chapter 4, but i promise (well, i hope) it's worth it
> 
> enjoy some sad and angry pressman family feels. we never really get to see what allie's fam is like, so i'm imagining her dad as pretty hard ass and her mum as kind but also kinda a hard ass...you don't make two badass kids like cassandra and allie by being wussies do ya
> 
> also, this is totally unedited n all that, so sorry if things don't MAKE sense. it's late okay and i just love history and princesses and hallie let me beee
> 
> title comes from 'miss americana & the heartbreak prince' aka maybe the best song on this record and a hallie song For SUre xoxo enjoy !!

For three weeks after King James’ announcement at the breakfast table, preparations for Cassandra’s marriage to the Dauphin go on as usual. There is a public announcement of the betrothal and a parade in the streets of London. The princess is fitted for many beautiful dresses and a deep red wedding gown, the designs being sent off to the royal dressmaker. She receives a letter from the French prince, and Allie sits up late at night with her sister reading the love note. 

(Well, it’s hardly a “love note”. There’s barely a smidge of romance in the words the prince uses. It reads more like a legal document acknowledging the upcoming marriage and nothing more. Allie would have suspected the Dauphin to be more sentimental, seeing as he is French and all, but sadly, for Cassandra, he does not seem to be, and is instead rather harsh.) 

Cassandra, despite her initial upset, takes everything on the chin. She wears her newfound status as the future Queen of France with dignity and pride. The outburst in Allie’s bedchambers seems to have been a one-time occurrence only, for Cassandra is as sweet as a lily in May from the moment she wakes up to the second she falls asleep. 

Allie watches it all from a distance with both happiness for her sister and a smug sense of satisfaction that Allie is not the one who is being sent away. 

And then. And _ then _. The world implodes.

* * *

The Tuesday morning it happens, Helena and Becca are in the Allie’s bedchambers, adjusting the sleeves and fastening the buttons on her forest green cotehardie. They’re chattering amongst themselves, the ladies more friends than servants, when they hear it.

A scream--bloodcurdling, terrible--from the next room. Cassandra’s bedchamber. All the blood in Allie’s veins freezes cold, stops flowing. Cassandra--beautiful, polite, ladylike Cassandra--would never shriek like that unless something was very, very wrong.

“My lady--!” Helena startles as Allie, half-dressed, rushes from the room. Decorum be damned. 

She pushes past people (servants, curious nobles staying at court) who have gathered in the hallway, elbows her way through, her ladies trailing behind her. 

“Out!” she yells. “All of you, get out!” The crowd disperses. She yanks open Cassandra’s bedchamber door and marches through, untied sleeves falling off her shoulders and exposing the cream-coloured smock underneath. She must look a wild, wild mess. It’s nothing compared to what she finds inside the bedroom. 

That it’s not Cassandra who screamed.

“The Princess!” a woman, one of Cassandra’s ladies, wails. “The Princess is dead!” There’s three of her ladies cowering in the corner of the bedroom near where the bath normally is, all in various states of distress. 

“Stop!” yells Allie, charging into the room. “Stop! She’s not! She can’t be!” 

But the moment she steps behind a linen screen towards the bathtub, she knows it’s true.

Her heart falls to the pit of her stomach, then falls and falls some more. It’s as if there’s an invisible weight that has attached itself to her gut and is pulling, pulling, making her feel emptier than she ever has before.

Cassandra--beautiful, polite, ladylike, wonderful, intelligent, witty, kind Cassandra--is laying motionless in the metal tub. 

She still looks a dream, floating naked in warm water up to her chin, dusky-coloured flower petals and herbs swirling around her body. There is no blood or signs of struggle. Just stillness, and silence, and death.

“My God…” Allie breathes, tiptoeing closer to the bathtub, hands shaking, lips trembling.

Time slows. The frantic noise in the room lowers to a dull roar, replaced by the heavy rushing of blood in her ears. Her vision narrows to a pinpoint, focused on Cassandra’s face. Golden hair plastered to her forehead. Fine lines on her young face relaxed. Perfect mouth slightly open. Head lolling to one side. 

She looks peaceful. Like she’s sleeping. Not dead.

But there’s no rising and falling of her chest, and her skin is painfully white.

“Call the physician,” Allie orders, talking over her shoulder to the pack of ladies in the room. “Call my father and mother. The rest of you--get out.”

Someone mumbles a _ yes, m’lady _ and then there’s the sound of five pairs of slippered feet moving away, and the closing of the wooden door.

Finally alone, Allie exhales loudly, and it feels like her soul is being breathed out with the air in her lungs. She crumbles to the floor as if stabbed in the abdomen. Tears flow hot and fast, followed by animalistic cries. Reaching out to touch Cassandra’s hand, she finds it to be warm still, but growing colder by the second. How long has she been dead? What was Allie doing when she died? Admiring her hair in the mirror? Letting Helena and Becca dress her up in the finest clothes? Feeding her ridiculous vanity while her sister lay dying?

She cries so hard she retches.

No words. She has no words. What do you say to a dead body? What do you say to a sister now gone?

* * *

An autopsy performed the day after Cassandra’s death rules that something had happened to her heart. It was the only option, seeing as everything else about her body was perfectly healthy.

Allie hears the rumours about Cassandra’s death whispered in the palace hallways in the week afterward. 

_ Perhaps God struck her down. Do you hear she was having an affair with Lord Astley’s son? _

_ I heard she killed herself. She didn’t want to marry the Dauphin so she took a lethal sleeping potion made for her by a witch over in Leicester. _

_ One of her ladies--the dark-haired one, I think--was jealous of her and drowned her in the bathtub but made it look like an accident. _

It’s offensive to the memory of her sister to spend any time even disproving these rumours when she hears them. They are lies, of course. All lies. Cassandra was an angel, and everyone knows it.

The funeral procession for Cassandra is three days long. Horses, carriages and crowds of people travel from London to Kent to bury the princess at Canterbury Cathedral. Fittingly, it rains all hours of each day. 

“God is crying for our Cassandra,” the Queen said to her younger (and now, only) daughter the morning of the burial. “He knows we have lost our darling, and He is crying.”

Even in death, Cassandra is the favourite daughter.

_ I spent seventeen years living in your shadow, _ she thinks, picturing Cassandra’s smiling face. _ Now you disappear, and I’m stuck in the darkness you left behind. _

* * *

Allie doesn’t talk to anyone for six days. Not even Will.

* * *

Three weeks pass. Allie has woken up every morning with an empty feeling, like she has a gaping hole in her stomach, like her innards have been ripped out. There is nothing that compares to losing a person you loved. For she loved Cassandra with her whole being--no matter if they were fighting, or Allie was rolling her eyes at one of her sister’s lectures. They loved each other truly and deeply. Life at Westminster is not--will not_ ever _\--be the same.

And there is something else in addition to this awful hollowness. Allie is not stupid. She may not have been raised to be Queen of England, but certainly to be Queen of _ something _. Perhaps Queen of Scotland, or at least a duchess of one of the great duchies of England. 

It floats in the tense air between herself and her parents every time they speak. ‘_ The French question’, _ she has heard her father mention. There is a severed betrothal, a prince who needs a wife, and a peace agreement that lies in tatters.

No, Allie is not stupid. 

The person she has been raised to be, as she finds out on the morning of the twenty-second day after Cassandra’s death, is the Queen of France.

Like it or not.

(And dislike it, she does.)

“This is ridiculous, Father,” Allie snorts. She and her parents are back in the King’s private rooms for breakfast. It’s a repeat of the same day months ago. The only difference is the lack of the tall, straw-haired young woman in the seat next to Allie’s. The loss is unspoken but the sense of it charges the air around the three of them. “I’m not moving to France.”

The King lets out a humourless laugh and tears into a piece of bread, speaking next around a mouthful of it. “Surprisingly, Allison, this is not about what you want. This is about what is _ right _.”

“It’s never about what I want, is it?”

“No. I don’t suppose it is.”

The two of them--middle-aged, salt and pepper-bearded and petite, golden and youthful--glare at each other over their plates of food.

The Queen attempts to diffuse the situation. “My dear,” she says, laying a hand on her husband’s arm. “Don’t be so cruel.”

“Why should I be anything else?” the King says bitterly. “It’s not as if she will ever appreciate anything I give her.”

“She’s young, my love. She doesn’t understand.”

“Oh, I do love it when you two speak about me as if I’m not sitting right in front of you,” Allie sighs, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t be sarcastic, darling,” her mother says. “It’s not becoming of you.”

At that, they fall into an uncomfortable silence. Allie, after scraping the last of her porridge from the bowl, breaks it with a softly spoken but indignant question.

“Why me?”

And this is when the conversation all turns to custard, if it hadn’t already. This question is the last straw for the King, who swallows his bite of bread and thunders, “Why you? _ Why you? _” 

Allie grits her teeth. _ Uh oh _. Allie is used to her father being mad at her: for getting mud on her skirts when walking through the garden; for eating her dinner like a pig; for drinking too much ale at Christmas. But this is a different kind of rage. An anger tinged with sadness at the loss of Cassandra. Weeks of pain tumbling out in one conversation. She may be young, but she understands.

This doesn’t make the screaming match any more enjoyable. She braces for impact.

“The work I have done for you! The cheek you have to talk back to me like this! I’ve put up with this long enough today!” her father roars, pounding a fist on the table. “I ended a war that has been raging for a hundred years, and all I ask is for you to obey me! You will be Queen of France, Allie. Is that not enough?” 

It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Maybe she is the most selfish person in the world for wanting something more, but she does. Allie wants love. _ Real, _true, heart-filling, soul-crushing love. She won’t find it in France, for she’s already found it here. With Will. This Dauphin, no matter how powerful, can’t give her the one thing she desires so desperately.

And another thing she does not understand. Who will become Queen when her father and mother inevitably pass away? Surely she does not mean so little to her parents that they’d rather allow a stranger--or worse, a power-hungry, blood-thirsty cousin like Campbell, the Duke of Lancaster--to rule? 

She cannot believe it. “You have no sons, Father!” she explodes, and begins, embarrassingly, to cry, a mix of tears over Cassandra and over her new unwelcome destiny. “If you send me away to live with those awful French bastards, there will be no one to rule England when you die! And you _ will _ die, Father, because you are not a god. Who will rule instead? Cousin Campbell? You cannot be serious!”

“I’m as serious as a dead man,” the King hisses. A hush falls over the room. The mention of death brings forward recent memories of Cassandra’s white face being lowered into the tomb. It’s a distasteful choice of words. The table between Allie and her parents might as well have been as wide as the River Thames, she feels so far away.

“I am sorry that Cassandra died. I am sorry that it’s just me left. My God, we haven’t even _ talked _about it--” her breath catches on a sob, and the pain feels fresh and real all over again. “But do not punish me by doing this, Father. I know I will never match up to my sister. But don’t send me away. Please.”

The King looks at his only daughter hard and long, blue eyes examining her face with intensity. Before either he or his wife can say another word, Allie pulls her arms in to cross at her chest, and disappears from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this less of an accurately characterised fic and more of me projecting my own nerdy princess fantasies onto my fave tv couple ?? you decide folks
> 
> i tried to make cassandra's death something related to her heart - cos it's not like they had the term "congenital heart defect" in the 1450s LOL


	3. saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a betrothal, a tearful exchange, a last meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: 'death by a thousand cuts'
> 
> so this chapter is kind of a continuation of the second one - i just didn't want to make chap 2 too long!! a bit of a filler before we get to the main event next chapter....the meeting of allie and the french prince harry ooOOOOOooOOo exciting
> 
> everyone is super dramatic and lowkey out of character but you know what they don't have much else to do with their lives in the 1400s so why NOT be dramatic i say

It all happens so fast, Allie barely has time to breathe. 

Becoming engaged to the Dauphin of France is a stressful ordeal. It had seemed like a whirlwind when she’d watched her sister go through this before, and it feels like a hurricane now it’s her turn. 

Blankly, Allie goes through the motions. Dress fittings. Extra French lessons (although she is already basically fluent). Meetings with visiting French nobles. Appearances to the public. 

One thing Allie will _ not _ do, however, is wear the wedding dress Cassandra was set to have. 

“No,” she says, when the dressmaker brings in the dark red gown. Allie, standing in her undergarments on a stool in the middle of her bedchamber, crosses her arms across her chest tightly, shaking her head. “No,” she insists. “I’m not wearing that.”

The dressmaker doesn’t seem to know what to do. “But—Your Highness, the King said—“

“I'm not. Wearing. It.” The dressmaker’s face is frozen in shock. Rarely is she so rude to someone who has done nothing wrong. It doesn't sit well in her gut. Allie sighs. “I'm sorry, but I can't wear my dead sister’s gown,” she says bluntly. “Do you understand?”

The dressmaker and her helpers leave the room with a series of hushed _ yes, m’lady, of course, m’lady _’s. 

A new dress is made. Soft, airy blue with white trim and silver beading. Allie looks like an angel in it. She hates everything it stands for. 

* * *

The ambassador to France is a short, black-haired, good-natured man named Gordie who is only a few years older than herself. Allie has met him a handful of times at banquets and, more recently, in meetings she has attended with her father. He tries to make the incredibly awkward experience of becoming engaged via distance as pleasant as possible.

For this is not, of course, a real wedding ceremony. If it were, there would be hundreds of beautifully-dressed lords and ladies lining the pews of this high-ceilinged church, yards of colourful fabric and flowers, musicians and fools and dancers. Instead there is a handful of the King’s closest advisors, the Queen, the Bishop of Canterbury, the ambassador, and Allie herself. 

“I know this is probably not what you had planned when you imagined yourself betrothed to a prince,” Gordie whispers kindly as he walks her down the carpeted aisle to where her father and the bishop are waiting.

“You would be right about that,” Allie replies. “And I would not have imagined he would be French, either.” The words are spoken half in seriousness and half in jest.

Gordie chuckles. “We French are quite alright, I promise you.”

“Even the prince?”

They have come to the end of the aisle. The Archbishop raises his hands to indicate that Allie and the ambassador should bend down to rest on their knees as part of the ceremony.

“The Dauphin is--well, you’ll find out soon enough,” Gordie whispers, a twinkle in his eyes visible when he glances at Allie.

“Now, that _ does _ sound promising.” The sarcasm loses its bite when paired with a cheeky smile. 

The bishop begins to speak in droning Latin. Allie closes her eyes and bows her head, trying to focus on the words. Her imagination gets the better of her. One day soon, she will be kneeling beside the future King of France, exchanging wedding vows and promising to protect the French realm. 

_ What will he be like? _ she wonders, perhaps for the first time seeking to distinguish him as an individual rather than lumping him together with the rest of the hated French population. _ Will he be tall? Handsome? Humorous? Kind? _She has seen portraits of him, but only from when he was a young boy. The prince would be a man of nineteen now. 

_ Whether he is handsome or not does not change the fact that I am being forced into this against my will, and that I hate him for being my enemy, _ Allie thinks, attempting to snap out of any childish daydreams. Her mind then turns to the face of Will. _ Oh, Will. What am I going to do with you? _

Then her name is called to rise, and Allie opens her eyes to see her parents smiling warmly at her from their place on their thrones. 

Gordie takes her arm and leads her out of the room to soft applause from the dukes present.

The ceremony is over. It’s time to say goodbye, and for Allie to go with her ladies to get ready for supper. 

The ambassador bends very low to kiss softly Allie’s hand. “I wish you all the best, Your Highness,” he says as he rises to meet her again. She finds peace and gentleness in his amber-coloured eyes. _ Cassandra would have loved him _ , comes a fleeting thought. _ She would have really loved him. _

“I think, in another life, we could have been great friends, Ambassador.”

The comment is so out of the blue and surprises even Allie herself, but Gordie’s sweet expression doesn’t change. “I think so too, Princess.”

She finds herself feeling grateful for the first time in weeks that a kindness has been shown to her through Gordie. Allie allows herself to think, just for a short moment, that perhaps this whole thing won’t be so bad after all.

* * *

This is, of course, a premature thought, for the entire week leading up to her departure is utter hell.

She can’t sleep. Nightmares plague her mind every night. A ship crashing against rocks, bodies thrown overboard, screaming and screaming. The Dauphin smiles and his mouth opens so wide it becomes unhinged and swallows her. Cassandra’s body rises from her grave and haunts the castle, her scraggly blonde hair now a shade of white as pale as her skin. 

An inability to sleep leads to a loss of appetite and an increased irritability. All someone has to do is mention the words _ France, Dauphin _ or _ marriage _and Allie will be set off into a temper tantrum. She even yells at Becca just for mentioning how beautiful Allie’s wedding dress looked. 

This may also be due to the fact that her monthly course is soon approaching. This is, naturally, something Allie completely disregards. She’s angry because she’s simply angry, and that is that.

This emotion all comes to a head--if it hadn’t already in conversation with her father--two days before departure.

It is an awfully wet day for the month of May. The sky is darkly overcast, and rain floods down in torrents, wind buffering the windows in Allie’s room and whistling through cracks in the walls. With little else to do but stay indoors, Allie plays checkers with Helena. Becca lounges by the fire reading a book. 

Playing games with her ladies--her friends--helps to quell the anxiousness resting at the base of her throat, allowing her to focus on something else for a moment. 

This moment, today, is brief. Late in the morning, there is a tap on the bedroom door. Helena rises to answer it, but the heavy wood swings wide open before she has a chance to. Standing there is the Queen, regal in her gold and white gown, a trail of ladies behind her. 

She is stony-faced. “I would like some time alone with my daughter.”

Helena and Becca stumble into low curtsies then hurry out the door, Becca sparing a glance back at her mistress, brown eyes comically wide as if saying _ good luck--you’ll need it! _

The door slams shut behind the Queen, her ladies left, as well, outside. 

It is only when her mother steps closer that Allie realises that impassive expression masks red-rimmed eyes. _ Has she been crying? _

“Mother,” Allie greets, respectfully dipping into a curtsy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Queen looks at her daughter for a long moment, longer than Allie finds comfortable. As if she is trying to soak Allie in, capturing the youthful roundness of her cheeks and the dark blue of her eyes to remember forever.

When Amanda speaks, her voice is softer than her appearance. “Tomorrow will be such a rush. I didn’t know if I would have time to speak with you.”

This seems to signal the beginning of a lengthy conversation. Recognising this, Allie sits down on one of the chairs near the fire. It’s still warm from when Becca was resting in it. The Queen takes her own seat across from Allie.

“And what did you want to speak with me about?” Allie asks, anger and frustration already riling up in her. 

The Queen gulps down a breath. “I wanted to give you some advice.” _ Here we go _ , Allie thinks, settling down into the soft velvet of her chair _ , another lecture. _ “I was your age when your father and I were married. Wedding the heir presumptive, as you will be soon, was a heavy burden of responsibility for me. I was, after all, just the daughter of a duke. I knew noble life, but--the life of a Queen?” Her mother shakes her head. “I had no idea. I had to learn how to love at the same time I had to learn how to rule. There is a hard journey ahead of you. I know you are not happy about this--” Allie steels her jaw and crooks an eyebrow as if to say _ you think? _ “--but I hope one day you will see that this is the right thing.” The Queen reaches across to lay a gentle hand on her daughter’s arm. “I only want the best for you, my darling. Please know this.”

Hearing her mother talk so openly about the hardships she is going to face in forging a life for herself in France brings to the surface all these uncomfortable feelings again. She’s never left England before. She’ll likely never see her family again. Cassandra’s gone, and soon her mother and father will be, too. A wave of panic surges in her stomach, tips out over her tongue.

“I don’t want this--_ any _ of this. I don’t want to make the rules,” Allie pleads, reaching for her mother’s hands. “Mama, please. Don’t send me away. It’s not too late. Don’t let him send me away.” Her mother is taken aback by this sudden outburst, pursing her lips. It’s not that Allie is normally a closed book, but her usual flare-ups tend to be in anger rather than the desperation, the anxiety, that is being expressed now. The emotion surprises Allie, too, but she forges ahead. “I don’t want to be the French queen. I don’t want to marry the Dauphin,” she says, voice verging on a whine, verging on tears. The words tumble out in a heated rush. “I hate him. I hate him already, I know it. I don’t want to be French. I want to be English, forever, and I want to stay here with you. Don’t you think Cassandra would want me to stay?”

“It doesn’t matter what Cassandra thinks! Cassandra is dead!” Amanda snaps. Then, like a candle flame blown out, her anger disappears, replaced by a heavy sigh and the soft falling of tears.

Up until a month ago, Allie had never seen her mother cry. It’s still not a familiar sight--the proud Queen of England reduced to a puddle of tears.

“You are my only daughter now. My only child. I don’t want to lose you as much as you don’t want to go. But you have to obey your father,” the Queen says, weeping softly as she reaches out to touch Allie’s face. “Please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

There is something about seeing her mother so undone, so hopeless, that stops Allie in her tracks. She swallows hard, choking back a sob, and places her own hands over her mother’s that are resting on her cheeks. “Mama, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

The Queen sighs heavily and leans back into her chair, palms dropping from Allie’s skin. She wipes her eyes. “Allie, my dear. I will miss you so much. And I know you will miss us too, and England. But I do wonder--” She pauses to look carefully in her daughter’s eyes. Her face softens when she takes in Allie’s pained expression. The way she crosses her arms over her body, the helplessness in her eyes. Intuitive like her eldest daughter, she says, “Perhaps it is not only us you will miss.”

“What?” Allie’s cheeks bloom pink. “What do you mean?”

Having arrived at the root of the problem, the Queen visibly relaxes. “Ah. There is a boy. You are in love.”

This evening has been strange enough with all the crying and carrying on, so Allie isn’t keen on making it any worse. She doesn’t bother to lie. Cheeks still flushed in embarrassment at being caught out, she whispers, “Did Cassandra say something to you?”

Her mother’s lips turn up into a small smile. “No. I don’t believe she did.”

_ Always trustworthy _, Allie thinks fondly of her sister. “Oh.”

“What is his name?"

Allie swallows hard. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Why not? Is he French?” her mother jokes, the warm sound of her chuckle unfamiliar.

“No,” she replies, voice low. She has never felt more vulnerable. “His name is Will. He is a--he works in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen? Oh, Allie.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, Cassandra warned me against it for so long--”

“Allie. It’s alright.”

“What?” Allie’s head, previously bowed in shame, snaps up to meet her mother’s gaze. Instead of looking at her with disgust or fury or anything like that, she’s looking at her with knowing. With love. 

“I’m not saying I approve. Of course I don’t. But I understand. More than most.” There is a story here to be told, but it doesn’t seem the time to press. The Queen leans forward again to hold Allie’s hand. She turns it over in her own, pressing her thumbs to Allie’s skin in a light, comforting squeeze. “I will strike you a deal: I won’t tell your father about this boy, and you will go to France with a smile on your face.” It sounds like manipulation, but feels like an immense kindness.

“Thank you, Mother,” Allie says as the Queen stands to leave. 

Before she departs, Amanda pauses to rest a hand on her daughter’s head, fingers nestling into the curls of her hair. “Make sure you meet with him before you go. You will regret it if you don’t.” 

* * *

That evening, Allie sends a bushel of apples to the kitchen in a basket adorned with a silk ribbon, the special code she and Will have used to communicate for years.

Under the cover of darkness, Allie makes her way to the inn room she rented and waits there for her lover. She is sat there on the lumpy bed, disguise partially removed, for a long time. So long, she is afraid he will never arrive and almost gives up to go back to her rooms in the palace. 

At the time when the moon sits low over the horizon, shadows beaming across the hay-strewn floor, Will finally opens the door.

He looks exhausted.

Will sits down on the bed next to her, knees touching hers. She leans into his warmth and goes to kiss him, but he pulls away. “Were you ever going to tell me about the Dauphin, or were you just going to leave and not say a word?”

The guilt she feels is a knife to the gut. “I--”

“You haven’t spoken to me in _ weeks _, Allie. Cassandra’s death, your betrothal--I had to hear it all secondhand. Why?”

She doesn’t know how to respond. “I--I don’t know. It has been a difficult month for us all,” she says stoically, hiding her true feelings, the opposite of how she poured out her heart to her mother earlier that day. 

“Don’t tell me that,” Will says, face stony. “Don’t you think I know it?” he falls back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. She follows him. “I can’t believe this. It’s really happening. You’re leaving to marry someone else.” He turns to face her. Their noses brush. She wants so badly to kiss him, for all this awkwardness to be gone, _ to not have to leave _. But the tension is there, a wall between them. “Where does that leave me?”

If her heart wasn’t broken before, now it’s shattered into a thousand pieces. “Oh, Will--”

“I don’t want your pity,” he says, trying to sound gruff. The crack in his voice gives him away. “I just--I knew this day would come. I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

It is then that she realises that he is crying. Moonlight catches on his cheeks, highlighting silvery tears. She sighs and reaches across to brush one away. Her finger trails down to his lips and he parts them at her touch. She leans in close, their breath mixing together.

“You are my best friend,” she whispers.

“I will love you forever,” he replies, and presses his mouth to hers in a searing kiss.

* * *

The day she leaves for Calais, it rains and rains.

There had been a parade planned to send the last Pressman Princess off on her journey, but the King has decided to cancel it at the last minute due to the weather. Despite this, there are large crowds of people--townsfolk and well-dressed nobles alike--who gather at the port to see Allie off. To her delight, the Ambassador to France has been tasked with accompanying Allie on her journey to his homeland. Seeing Gordie’s smile when she meets him at the ship is a small kindness. 

Despite this, the mood is sombre. Goodbyes had been said in public: with her mother, her father, and Will. Now is the time for Allie to hold up the end of the deal she made with her mother. She boards the ship with her chin held high, a thin smile pulling her lips tight, and turns back only to raise a hand in a final goodbye.

Servants help Allie and her ladies settle into the bedchambers on the ship. The wooden-walled rooms are not glamorous in the slightest, but that’s not something Allie is thinking much about. Instead, she thinks of everything she is leaving behind. 

After some time, Allie is left alone in the room with just Becca and Helena. Noticing that the princess appears troubled, the latter moves to place a gentle hand on the princess’ arm, almost missing the point of contact as the boat rocks to one side. 

“Highness,” Helena says, always thoughtful. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, it’s just--” Tears begin to well up in Allie’s eyes. Usually, she is not one for moments of vulnerability. The only person she would have ever shared her tears with was Cassandra. “I think I’m quite afraid.”

It is a strange turn of phrase—_ I think I am afraid. _ But it’s how she feels. There have not been many times in her life where Allie has felt scared. Fearlessness has always been her strength—or, maybe, weakness.

Now, it threatens to strangle her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say goodbye to ol mate will guys cos ya won't be seeing him again...or allie's parents eeek sorry allie france is YOUR HOME NOW
> 
> also: hellOOOO gordie as the french ambassador ?? 
> 
> stay tuned next chap for when we meet harry and his family, the guard, kelly, and beautiful 15th century france


	4. it's like i'm 17, nobody understands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an arrival, an awkward encounter, a sour aftertaste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE MOMENT IS FINALLY HERE FOLKS
> 
> grab your popcorn and enjoy
> 
> song in the chapter title is 'i think he knows'

_ “It’s your turn, sister.” _

_ “Are you sure you didn’t move my piece when my back was turned?” _

_ “Of course not. Who do you think I am?” _

_ Cassandra smiles, and smiles, and smiles until the corners of her mouth split open. The windows in the room shatter, shards of coloured glass shooting into her skin. Chess pieces fly into the air, whipped around by the freezing wind that rushes through broken window frames. Allie goes to scream, but the vision fades away, the floor opening up into a swirling pool of nothing. _

_ She opens her eyes and she is standing naked in the middle of a great hall, surrounded by hundreds of glittering people. Everyone is dancing. Spinning, twisting, clapping, singing. Allie pushes her way through the crowd, bare feet slapping the tiled floor as she moves faster and faster, calling out Cassandra’s name. _

_ All eyes in the room focus on her. All the faces begin to laugh. The mass of bodies parts like the Red Sea to reveal a boy of nine or ten sitting atop a gilded throne. His features are two-dimensional and smooth, like he has been painted by brushstroke: the Dauphin. He doesn’t move but to open his mouth to say, without emotion, “We have been waiting for you.” _

_ The crowd repeats his words in French, chanting as they close in on her, laughing so coldly and cruelly. “Nous vous attendions...nous vous attendions...nous vous attendions…” _

_ Allie steps backward but a brick wall has suddenly appeared, and she’s cornered, suffocating, being pushed down into the hot swarm of bodies, someone’s stepping on her throat, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe-- _

_ The ground transforms again into an abyss, and she falls. _

_ She comes to in this same great hall. The dancing mob are gone, and so is the prince. This time, she is the one sitting on that golden throne, body clad in her sister’s red wedding gown. A bishop wearing a silver and blue mitre steps towards her, holding out a bejeweled crown. _

_ Before her eyes, the man’s body morphs soundlessly into that of Cassandra’s--pale, covered with blood and dirt, half-rotted, zombie-like, moving slowly forward. The voice that emerges from her dead sister’s lips is deep and inhuman. _

_ “You are the Queen of France…” it murmurs. Cassandra’s hands reach out to place the crown onto Allie’s head, but the silver melts in her black-and-blue hands, dripping down the sides of Allie’s face, burning her skin. She shouts, screams, and the ceiling above them lifts off. Allie is dragged up into the midnight skies by an invisible force, yelling down at her sister as she is taken away, disappearing, disappearing... _

_ Now she is in a forest, dense with pine trees and black as night. Cassandra’s voice drones on: “Queen of France…” _

_ Someone is chasing her, is calling for her, and her subconscious tells her to run, but she can’t move, her feet stuck in the muddy ground. Looking behind her, she sees a figure gliding through the trees, tall and dark-haired and unsettlingly faceless. She needs to get away, needs to run, but the man is gaining on her, moving so fast he doesn’t seem like he’s touching the ground, and Cassandra’s words reverberate through the trees: “Queen of France, Queen of France, Queen of France--” _

“Your Highness!”

Breath enters Allie’s lungs in a cold rush. Her eyelids snap open to reveal Helena’s face hovering just inches above her own. “Helena!”

The other woman takes a hasty step back. “Sorry, Princess, but you wouldn’t wake--you seemed distressed--” 

“Oh. Yes. I was having a nightmare, I think.” Allie sits up in her bed, blinking quickly, adjusting to the world around her. The forest and the faceless man fade away and the wooden walls of the cramped, cluttered room come into focus. They’re still on the ship to Calais. She sucks in another deep breath in an attempt to ground herself. _ Cassandra had seemed so real _ , she thinks, _ and the man in the trees--who was he? Was that the Dauphin? _

“We have arrived in France, my lady,” comes Becca’s voice from the corner of the room. She is bent over a pail of water, busy pouring some of it into a metal cup, chestnut-coloured hair swept back into a low bun. Neither Becca nor Helena look as if they have slept well. The lines under their eyes are prominent and their cheeks lack their usual glow. Allie suspects she looks much the same. 

Becca comes to hand Allie the cup of water, instructing her to drink it. “You don’t look so well.” She blushes and bends into an apologetic curtsy. “Sorry, Highness, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Allie brushes it off with a wave of her hand and gulps down the water. It tastes like steel and doesn’t quite quench her thirst. “It’s fine, Becca. You know I don’t care much for pretentious protocol. We are in France now, as you said. A new country.” She stands up out of bed and straightens the skirt of her undergarments. “I have a feeling that we are embarking on a journey in which I won’t need you to be my ladies, but my friends.” This is a lovely sentiment but an ironic one, as Helena and Becca rush to dress their mistress in her modest travelling clothes--a thick woolen dress in a leafy green, leather girdle slung low over her lips, hooded fur cape protecting her from the rain still pouring down outside. Helena helps to braid her hair into tight plaits and fix them on top of her head.

“What are the plans for our journey?” Allie asks as the two of them fuss over getting her ready to face the day.

“The Ambassador came down earlier while you were sleeping and told us that we are to set out on horseback for Paris as soon as you wake.” Helena accidentally pokes Allie’s scalp with a hairpin and the blonde girl hisses in pain. Her lady mutters a fervent apology.

Becca continues with the answer to the question, hands busy tying the girdle around Allie’s waist. “It should take four days for us to reach Fontainebleau. The Ambassador says it won’t be a comfortable journey, but we only have to make it once.”

_ We only have to make it once. _ Allie’s heart stings with the reminder that France is her new home now, and her parents are hundreds of miles away. “Did he say when I would meet the prince?” There is an unmistakable wobble to her voice, something Allie hates herself for. Fear is a feeling she has not experienced often in her life and it is not welcome now.

“No,” Helena says. “No, he didn’t say.” She and Becca step away from their mistress and run their eyes up and down her body, checking if anything is out of place. Helena’s eyes meet Allie, and at once her expression softens. Can she see that Allie is scared? “Highness, forgive me if this is out of place, but…” Helena reaches across to take Allie’s hand in hers. “We have known you all our lives. We know how courageous you are. You were born to be a leader. You were born to be Queen, whether you knew it or not. We will stand by you as your ladies all the days of our lives. I promise.”

“And I, too,” Becca echoes with a small smile. 

For a moment, Allie is overwhelmed by a sense of affection for these two young women. Helena is right--they have known each other all their lives. As soon as Allie could walk, these girls have been her companions. They know the ins and outs of her mind. They know when she’s sad, happy, angry or frustrated, and anticipate every need. She trusts them completely. Becca, with her wide, soulful eyes and soft voice. Helena, with her smooth honey-coloured skin and kind smile. Perhaps this new adventure will bring them even closer--Allie hopes, at least. God knows she will need them by her side if she is to survive all this.

“I thank you both. I am so glad you are here with me.” Allie blows out a heavy breath and reaches over to take Becca’s hand as well as Helena’s. “Let’s go to Paris and face this Dauphin.”

* * *

Gordie was right--the four-day journey is _ not _comfortable.

It rains the entire time. Allie has only seen the rain for what feels like weeks now--here, back in England, ever since Cassandra’s death--and she is sick of it. Oh, what she would give to be walking through fresh grass in the Westminster Palace gardens on a summer’s day, Will at her side. It would beat all this awful mud for sure. 

They travel on horseback from sunrise to sunset each day and sleep in local inns in the evenings. French peasants line the streets when they pass through towns--Doullens, Amiens, Beauvais--staring at Allie and her entourage. She stares back, taking in their simple clothing and hard-lined faces, thinking that they look much like English commoners do. The towns they visit are bustling with activity and bursting with sound. 

By the time they reach the Parisian city gates on the afternoon of the fourth day, Allie’s nerves have been frayed completely. Her hands on the horse’s reigns shake with anxiety at the prospect of meeting her future husband. It’s silly, but she expected to feel braver than this.

Out of her and Cassandra, Allie had always been the adventurous, rebellious, speak-your-mind one--but not the leader. Neither were wet blankets nor fragile flowers, but the difference between them was that Cassandra was brave, always, in the big things. The things that mattered, like preparing for the immense responsibility of becoming queen of a powerful nation and taking her newfound role as future ruler of France in stride, with grace, with minimal complaints. Allie was brave when it suited her, like sneaking off in the middle of the night to visit Will or taking a chance at hunting a large boar with her father, and whining incessantly when burdened with any kind of princessly duties. These acts of ‘courage’ feel just like foolishness now.

Staring up at the ancient city walls, feeling the tremble in her knees as she presses them into the horse’s side to get him moving, Allie prays for a little piece of that courage Cassandra had. 

She is met at the gate by a group of French noblemen who are also on horseback. One man, olive-skinned and clad in a red robe with blue hose, steps with his horse towards her. He looks a little like Will, and that realisation forces Allie to suck in a breath. 

“Bonjour! Welcome to Paris,” the man says in perfect English, scanning the crowd of travellers and smiling at each of them. “I am Lord Michael, the Ambassador to England.” His gaze settles on Allie and his eyes light up in recognition. “Ah! Princess Allie.” He tips over in his saddle in as deep a bow as he can manage on horseback. Allie has to stifle a laugh, for it’s quite comical. “It is an honour to meet you.”

“Thank you, Lord Michael.”

“Ah, you can call me Mickey,” he says with a flamboyant wave of his hand. It seems that although the man was born English, he has picked up on many French tendencies. “Are you ready to enter the palace? It is only a short way.”

Allie looks down at the skirt of her dress, frowning at it’s crumpled and sodden state. It has been pouring all day and she is soaked through, her fur coat only protecting her from so much. She sighs, realising that there may not be a place to change into a better gown. Mickey doesn’t seem to care what she looks like--although some of the other men in the group look at her strangely.

“Yes. I suppose so.”

Mickey smiles. “Merveilleux.” He turns his horse away from the princess and walks through the open city gates, members of his welcome posse coming to ride alongside Allie and her company, escorting them to the palace. 

Lord Mickey’s horse comes to trot alongside hers. For a while, Mickey attempts to engage the princess in conversation, pointing out important Parisian landmarks and explaining the histories of certain cathedrals they pass. She tries to listen--she really does--but gets lost in her thoughts all too easily.

Where is the prince? Should he have not been here to greet her? As nice as Lord Mickey has been, this hasn’t been the kind of welcome she expected. She is going to be the Queen of France one day, after all. _ Surely _ , she thinks selfishly, tiredly, _ that begets a more dignified welcome. _

In a lull in the conversation, Allie takes her chance to ask Mickey, “Is he not coming to welcome me himself?” 

The ‘he’ in question does not even need to be named. Lord Mickey understands, and glances at her with a grimace. “No, Your Highness, I’m sorry. He is out hunting with some of his men. You will meet him later this evening.”

“Oh.” The strange pang of disappointment she feels annoys her. Since her father first gave her the news that she would be taking Cassandra’s place in the peace-treaty-turned-marriage-proposal, Allie had not thought once about wanting to impress her new fiance or wanting him to like her. Now she is worried about looking good when he sees her for the first time? 

It doesn’t make sense, because she doesn’t care. Really. She doesn’t. 

* * *

Fontainebleau Palace, it pains proud Englishwoman Allie to say, is the most beautiful palace she has ever seen.

As they ride up through the gates to the main entrance, she is struck with its beauty. Perfectly manicured gardens that stretch for acres and acres, lush green forest surrounding the palace walls, rooms four stories high with window frames painted gold. It is bright and inviting even on this overcast day. Allie takes it all in, mentally comparing it to Westminster, and resigning herself to the fact that French architecture may truly be better. 

She only hopes that the royal family who live here are as lovely as their home.

Waiting on the steps ready to welcome her in are said family, sans their son.

Flanked by a small army of ladies and gentlemen are King Antoine and Queen Caryn of France and their daughter Princess Sara. They are magnificent. The King is tall, broad shouldered and dark-haired, smiling at her as if it comes easily to him. The Queen, on the other hand, is slender, fair-haired and has a severe look, like the headdress she wears is pulling too tight on her temples. Princess Sara is a perfect mixture of both, with her blonde hair pulled into braids not unlike Allie’s and a wide, excited grin painting her rosebud lips. She seems to be a year or two younger than Allie’s seventeen, not yet grown into her hips or breasts. To the side of her are three young women whom Allie guesses are her ladies: one brunette with elfish ears, one slim blonde, and one tan-skinned and petite. 

The King with the easy smile steps forward as Allie approaches. He welcomes her in French. “Bienvenue! Nous sommes ravis de vous rencontrer enfin.” _ Welcome! We are so delighted to finally meet you. _King Antoine looks so much like her father it’s scary--and comforting, in a way.

With help from Lord Michael, Allie disembarks from the horse and after straightening her wet skirt, moves towards the family. She sinks into a deep curtsy. “Merci de m’accepter chez vous.” _ Thank you for accepting me into your home _. 

The King smiles and continues speaking in English. “May I present to you my wife Caryn, Queen of France.”

He gestures to the woman next to him who offers a stiff hand out to Allie. She curtsies again and kisses it. “Bonjour, Your Majesty. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” says the Queen in Dutch-accented English, her eyes not conveying the joy her words do. Queen Caryn is the daughter of the Duke of Burgundy, one of the most powerful nobles in Europe. The wedding of her and Antoine twenty years ago was absolutely monumental for the House of Bingham—when you have the most important noble house as your family-in-law, you can do no wrong. Allie has heard that the Queen is as cold-hearted as her husband is warm, and this is obvious as the older woman raises her eyebrows at Allie’s disheveled, travel-worn appearance. Allie shivers under her gaze.

Thankfully, she is quickly passed onto the next person in line: the young and beautiful French princess. “And Princess Sara de Bingham,” the King says with a sweeping hand.

Sara curtsies to Allie at the same time as Allie does to her. The younger girl notices this with a sweet laugh. “This may be a little awkward if we are to be sisters, then? Always bowing to each other in the hallways?”

Allie blushes, unprepared for the casual nature in which the princess greets her. “Oh, yes, I suppose,” she replies with a nervous smile.

The other girl doesn’t miss a beat, unperturbed by Allie’s sudden shyness. “You are to marry my brother, no?” Allie nods and forces another smile. Sara winks. “Bonne chance!” _ Good luck _. 

“It’s an honour to be marrying into your family, Your Grace.”

“Oh, please,” Sara scoffs, waving a hand. “My brother is lucky to have you. And you can call me Sara.”

“Sara, s’il vous plaît--” interrupts the King, sighing in annoyance. He turns toward her to have a longer conversation--probably about manners and proper etiquette. Allie licks back a grin as she remembers what she was like at that age (and still now). 

The English ambassador waves her on, and she is whisked away with her ladies and entourage in through the giant palace doors.

* * *

“I’ll be fine, Becca. I’m only going out for a few moments. I’d just like to see the gardens.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to change first?” Becca asks with furrowed brows. “Your clothes are still wet.”

“I know,” Allie sighs. “But it will take a long time to unpack and get dressed, and the sun will be down before we know it.”

Allie slips out of the room--her new bedchambers, spacious and glimmering with artworks, an ornate bed, tapestries, dark mahogany--and into the hallway, venturing deeper into the palace grounds. 

She is not sure exactly why she feels the need to go to the gardens at sunset. Perhaps she is feeling sentimental because it is her first night in Fontainebleau. Her first night of the rest of her life. There was a heavy weight that settled upon her shoulders when her father told her of his plans for her marriage. This burden only grew steadily on her journey to Paris, and the moment she stepped foot in this palace it became a crushing load. 

Taking this time to walk amongst flowers and look up at the sun sinking low on the horizon, the moon appearing, knowing that her parents and Will in London are looking at the same skies, grounds her for a moment.

_ My life can still be my own _ , she thinks as she stands there in the soft French grass, fingers touching soft French flowers, English wool drying against her skin, English hair bedraggled and falling over her eyes. _ I can still be free, if only in my mind. Whatever kind of person the Dauphin is, I will not let him break me. I am Allie of England, Princess of the House of Pressman, daughter of King James and Queen Amanda, heir to the English throne and soon-to-be Queen of France. I am Cassandra’s sister. I am brave. I am strong. I am smarter than any man. I am-- _

“Bonjour?” An unfamiliar voice and a clamour of footsteps wrenches Allie from her thoughts. She spins around to face the intruder and is met with--

It is _ him. _She knows without question. He is the boy in the painting. The boy on the throne in her dream. The faceless man chasing her through the forest. Now he has a face, and it is so handsome.

So _ impossibly _ handsome. Dark, piercing eyes. Hair so brown it’s almost black, and lots of it, curling over his ears. Soft cheeks and a strong jaw. The most full, beautiful lips she’s ever seen on a man. Olive skin so smooth that in the sunset light it practically glows. 

The man steps out of the partial shadow of the archway flanked by three other young men, all handsome and intimidating in their own right.

It’s a few seconds before Allie realises the prince is waiting for her to say something. Caught off guard, she opens and closes her mouth a few times like a baby fish. Then she settles on a simple, “Hello.”

The prince cocks his head. “Qui êtes vous?” _ Who are you? _

She swallows hard and lifts her chin high. “Who do you think I am?” 

“Je pense que vous êtes une fille étrange dans mes jardins, et je veux savoir pourquoi vous êtes ici.” _ I think you are a strange girl in my gardens, and I want to know why you are here. _ His voice is silky, lazy, the words coming out of his mouth like water. 

Sounding more confident than she feels, she replies, “Well, these are going to be my gardens, too, are they not? I think I am more than entitled to walk in them.”

A flicker of recognition passes across the young prince’s face. “Ah!” he exclaims, flashing a grin. “Vous êtes la princesse Anglaise alors. Je ne m’attendais pas a te voir avant le dîner. Allison, c’est ca?” _ You are the English princess then. I wasn’t expecting to see you before dinner. Allison, is it? _

“Yes. And you are?”

The prince looks slightly taken aback that she doesn’t know his name (she does, of course, just likes the idea of offending this pompous Frenchman), but says, “Harry.”

“Ah.”

They all stand there for a long moment, staring curiously at each other, before Harry breaks the silence. “Comment était votre voyage?_”_ _How was your journey?_

“Wet.”

“Je peux voir ca.” _ I can see that _. Embarrassed but trying not to show it, Allie spares a quick glance down at her still-soaking dress.

“I didn’t realise it was so rainy here in spring. I thought France was supposed to be warm and sunny.” The sarcasm in her voice bites deliciously. 

Harry raises an eyebrow, and she hates how she admires the curve of it, the sleekness of his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth. “Vous semblez avoir apporté toute la pluie avec vous.” _ You seem to have brought all the rain with you. _

It’s at this point that Allie notices both of them have been refusing to speak in the other’s native language. For her, it’s an act of defiance. For Harry, it seems to be because he can’t be bothered switching into English. She feels herself growing ever uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Lovely to meet you, Prince Harry. If you’ll excuse me, I must get dressed.” Frustrated, overwhelmed and annoyed to no end, Allie gathers her wet skirts and pushes past the group of young men. As she is leaving, she hears them whisper none too quietly amongst themselves.

The first is Harry’s voice. “Elle ressemble a un rat noye.” _ She looks like a drowned rat. _

Another voice. “Au moins elle est jolie.” _ At least she’s pretty. _

Another, deeper voice. “Ca c’est sur. Regarde le cul sur elle! Tu es un homme chanceux, mon ami. Votre nuit de noces devrait être...ouf!” _ That’s for sure. Look at the ass on her! You’re a lucky man, my friend. Your wedding night should be...ouf! _A peal of cruel laughter.

“Je doute qu’il attendra le mariage, Clark. Je ne le ferais pas. Elle a l’air de faire une bonne baise.” _ I doubt he’ll wait until the wedding, Clark. I wouldn’t. She looks like she’d be a good fuck. _

A kinder-sounding voice joins the fray. “Jason, Clark. Coupez les gars. C’est une princesse.” _ Cut it out, guys. She’s a princess. _

And finally, Harry’s. “Et elle est a moi, souvenez-vous. Regarde ce que tu dis.” _ And she’s mine, remember. Watch what you say. _

They move out of earshot before Allie can hear the rest of the conversation, but she does hear a mention of someone named Kelly. _ I can’t believe this _ , she thinks. _ Some day. Some welcome. Some fiancé. _

She hurries away, tears in her eyes, whispering to herself over and over again:

_ I will not let him break me. I will not let him break me. I will _ not _ let him break me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how was that, huh? live up to expectations? let me know in the comments!
> 
> mickey makes an appearance !! he's my fave minor character. and we got semi-introduced to the guard? they're going to be trouble huh... hehehehHE
> 
> thank u for all your comments, kudos, and tumblr messages. pleaaase keep em coming, bc they SO inspire me to write (this is the fastest i have ever written a fic!) - and i want to write this with your headcanons and ideas in mind, so leave them for me in the comments or in my tumblr ask box @guzmannunier!! wanna see helena and luke's relationship blossom? wanna see sam and grizz make an appearance? i've got a lot of this written but i'm always looking for ways to expand this lil universe i've created - so let me know what you want friends xoxo


	5. i’ll cut off my nose just to spite my face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new friends, sarcasm, and a dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter but i hope ya’ll like it just the same!! i’ve changed some plot points from what i originally imagined, so some of the upcoming chapters have gotten longer and others—like this one—shorter. more coming soon! i’m hoping to upload once a week
> 
> also this was finished a few days ago but 1. my ao3 hasn’t been working on my computer properly and 2. i binged 3 seasons of peaky blinders in a week (so fckin good. maybe a peaky au fic one day ?? hehe) and kept forgetting to post 
> 
> song is ‘the archer’

Allie lazily swirls her fingers through the lukewarm bathwater, pink rose petals and rosemary sprigs spinning in little whirlpools around her body. She lets her muscles relax, rolls her neck to ease some of the tension there, and sinks down deeper into the water, her eyes becoming level with the surface of it. 

She tilts her head back and looks up at the ceiling. There are a few cobwebs. She watches as a tiny spider scuttles across a beam and disappears into a crack in the wood. 

It’s been almost twenty-four hours, and all Allie can think about is that awful first encounter with the Dauphin. 

Was she too rude to him last night in the garden? _ No, he was rude to me, too, _she thinks with a sigh. 

The way he had looked her up and down; called her a “drowned rat” when he thought she wasn’t listening. At least he had somewhat defended her when one of his friends said she’d be _ une bonne baise _, but even then that was with an unattractive air of machismo. 

_ She’s mine _, he’d said. 

Wrong.

_ I belong to no one _ , Allie thinks as she waits to see if the little spider will come scurrying out again. _ And I’ll certainly never belong to _him. 

Handsomeness isn’t the only thing that makes a good marriage. A husband needs to be kind, patient, loving. Harry doesn’t seem to be any of those things. 

Her arms suddenly ache for Will’s embrace, her skin for his touch. She imagines Will sweeping dust from the kitchen floor, thinking of her--or picking fruit in the garden, looking up at her empty window and wishing she’d come home. Tears prick at Allie’s eyes and she lets out a shuddering breath. 

This afternoon, she will be officially presented to the French court in a grand ball, packed with people and food and dancing. She’ll have to pretend to be civil with Harry, forget the way he insulted her, act like she wants to be there. _ At least Sara will be attending, _ Allie thinks, remembering the younger girls’ friendly smile, _ and she seemed a lot nicer than her brother. _

Allie tries to conjure up a picture of what her future might be like here with Harry. After their marriage, she’d get pregnant as soon as possible and would be popping out babies to protect and bolster the Bingham line until the day she died--probably of complications after birthing her seventh or eighth child. Meanwhile, Harry would likely have a number of mistresses who tended to him every time Allie was pregnant--which would be most of her life--as she would be stuck perpetually in confinement, still dreaming she could be back walking the gardens at Westminster with Will. Oh, what a _ life _. Sure, she would become Queen one day, but at what cost?

_ Cassandra died in a bathtub like this _ , she thinks sourly. _ What if that will happen to me too? _ Maybe not exactly in a bathtub, but the metaphor of drowning is certainly very real in Allie’s mind.

“I’m not going to let that happen to me,” Allie says out loud to the spider on the ceiling. Speaking the words turns them into a concrete goal, a challenge, a desire. She will not go down without a fight, and she will not let Henry de Bingham break her. 

Then Helena is knocking on her door--the simple two-one-two knock that is her signature--and the peace is disturbed.

* * *

The Great Hall at Fontainebleau is more beautiful and ornate than Allie could have ever imagined.

She had heard the stories of how extravagant the French were--how they cared for glamour rather than practicality--and she saw this when she walked through the front gardens yesterday afternoon. But this hall is another thing altogether.

A high domed ceiling covered in intricate frescos that match the walls, colourful tiled floors, glittering chandeliers stacked with candles, tapestries and paintings covering parts of the walls. It is all so stupidly, unnecessarily beautiful. 

It looks just like the ballroom in her dreams, complete with a hundred nobles and lively music.

Allie, dressed in a dark orange gown of velvet brocade that itches under her armpits, is led into the hall by Gordie, always a calm and grounding presence at her side. He feels a little bit like home, and she smiles gratefully at him as he takes her to her seat and goes to find his own.

To her chagrin, she is sat across from the great Dauphin himself at the dinner table. He is handsome in navy blue and black with a felt cap atop his hair, looking at her with an amused expression.

He leans forward in his chair to rest his clasped hands on the wooden table and looks at her over the flower arrangements. “Ravie de vous rencontrer officiellement, Princesse.” _ It’s nice to officially meet you. _

Allie considers retorting in English, like she did last night, but remembers she is sat at the table of the King of France and, since the rest of the family has been so welcoming to her, decides to keep up her good manners and speak in French. “Nous avons déjà rencontré? Je ne m’en souviens pas.” _ We’ve met before? _ she replies, voice dripping in sarcasm. _ I don’t remember. _

The confident glint in Harry’s eyes falters for a second, then is replaced by a troublemaking smirk. He is about to answer her, mouth open, before he is interrupted by his father.

The king stands up at the end of the long table and the room falls into an instant silence. With a cheerful, booming voice, he officially announces Allie’s arrival.

“For a long time, our country and the one across the sea have been at war,” he says to the quiet room. “We have been battling since my great-grandfather reigned. It seemed it would never end. But with the arrival of this fair young lady--” he gestures to Allie, “We have finally reached peace. I am glad to announce that my son, Henry de Bingham, heir to the throne, will be marrying Her Royal Highness Allison of England!” He raises a glass in a toast, and everyone in the room follows. “To the future King and Queen of France!”

Cheers echo around the room as French nobles from all corners of the country toast to the couple. Allie does her best to look happy and grateful, smiling at everyone as they tip their goblets in her direction.

Servants begin to bring out platters stacked high with all kinds of meat, exotic fruits, steaming vegetables. Her stomach rumbles with hunger, having not had rich food for a week or so now due to travelling. 

Harry must have noticed her hungrily eyeing the plates as they are placed on the table, because he looks over at her with a smile. “La nourriture est bonne, oui?” _ The food is good, yes? _

Clearing her throat and tearing her eyes away from the huge shank of lamb in front of her, Allie shrugs and says casually, “Eh bien, je ne l’ai pas encore mangé, donc je ne sais pas.” _ Well, I haven’t eaten it yet, so I don’t know. _

The prince raises an eyebrow and then sinks his teeth into a chicken leg. “Aimez-vous la France?” _ Do you like France? _he asks, chewing at the same time. 

She somewhat appreciates his attempt at conversation but isn’t in the mood to be friendly. “Comme pour la nourriture, je n’ai pas encore décidé.” _ As with the food, I haven’t decided yet. _

“Qu’y a-t-il a decider?” _ What is there to decide on? _

She looks him up and down. “Plusieurs choses.” _ Many things. _

“Ha!” he laughs, then mutters something in French to the brown-haired young man sitting next to him. Allie recognises him as one of Harry’s henchmen from last night. She can’t hear exactly what they’re saying. She does, however, identify the word _ la chienne _. 

Her response is cutting. “Si vous m’appelez une chienne, veuillez le faire en _ Anglais _ .” _ If you’re going to call me a bitch, I’d prefer you do it in English. _

The Dauphin looks momentarily embarrassed, then recovers himself with a wide, sarcastic grin. “Vous êtes en France, alors vous parlez Français. Je l’ai?” _ You are in France, so you speak French. Got it? _ he bites. 

“_ Excusez mon frere _. He doesn’t know how to act around pretty girls.” The voice is light and feminine, the accent heavy and beautiful. Allie turns to her saviour, Sara. “Pay no attention to him.”

“Ah, well, I’m trying not to,” Allie replies with a grimace as she digs into a pile of mashed potatoes. 

Sara huffs out a laugh. “Well, to soften the blow of having to marry my _ terrible _brother,” she says with a wink, “I thought I would introduce you to my ladies. It is important to have good friends around you, no?” Sara says, gesturing to the three women beside her, the same she passed at the entrance to the palace yesterday afternoon. “May I present Lady Elle, Lady Bea, and Lady Kelly.” The three girls bow their heads to Allie as they are introduced. 

“It is lovely to meet you,” Allie says to them all, genuinely grateful. 

Before Allie can properly enjoy her meal, the King stands up again to make another announcement. The wedding, he says, will be held in one week’s time at the Notre Dame Cathedral in the city. 

The ballroom erupts into another round of loud cheers. Allie feels sick to her stomach. _ A week! _ she thinks. _ Only a week! _

She was under the impression that she’d be a single woman here in France for at _ least _a few weeks while her parents organised the shipment of her dowry and the finalisation of France and England’s peace agreement, allowing her to get used to the place--and to her new fiance. But now the wedding is only a week away, and she doesn’t understand why.

Sara must have seen the confusion on Allie’s face because she turns to her with a knowing look. “I know it seems rushed,” she says. “But everything was figured out prior to your arrival. When it was...your sister...who was supposed to be here.” Sara’s voice lowers when talking about Cassandra, likely out of respect, but it feels instead like the circumstances around her arrival are some big secret or rumour to be kept in the dark.

Harry’s sister has been kind to her so far, and Allie likes the fearlessness she sees in Sara’s eyes, but she still wants to stand on top of the table and yell at Sara and the King and Harry and everyone: _ I know I wasn’t the first choice! I know I’m only here because my sister is dead! I just want to go home! _

“Oh,” she replies instead. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

With an empathetic sigh, Sara places one hand on top of Allie’s, and says, “Allison, I know we’ve only known each other for barely a day, but you seem like a _ tres merveilleux _ woman, and I am glad to soon have you as a sister.” Both girls’ attentions are suddenly distracted by Harry’s laugh--wild, loud--as he jokes across the table with the friends sitting next to him. They watch as he throws his head back in glee then throws his arms around the back of his friends’ chairs, already looking like a young king. “I know he seems difficult,” Sara says. “But he’s not so bad. I promise.”

“Ah, that’s what Gordie said, too.”

“Pardon me?”

Allie flashes her a smile. “Oh, nevermind.”

The musicians playing in the corner of the room start up again with their flutes and fiddles, filling the hall with sound.

A hand touches her shoulder and she looks up to see Harry staring down at her with a smirk. She hadn’t even seen him move from his seat.

“Danse avec moi.” _ Dance with me. _

She doesn’t like the way he commands her instead of asks. She _ also _ doesn’t like the way her body reacts to his voice and his touch, her skin tingling with nervousness. “I don’t feel like dancing,” she replies steadily in English.

He cocks his head like a little dog and furrows his brow. A dark curl of hair escapes his hat and flops over his eyes. “Cela semblera étrange si nous ne le faisons pas.” _ But it will look strange if we don’t. _

“Je ne danserai avec vous que si vous acceptez de me parler en Anglais. Mon Francais est bon, mais tu parles si vite--” _ I’ll only dance with you if you agree to speak to me in English. My French is good, but you talk so fast-- _It’s an excuse, of course. She can understand him just fine. But if she cannot have anything else for herself here, at least she will speak in her own language. 

“Yes. Yes, whatever, fine. Just _ dance _,” Harry replies in his thick accent. It’s strange to hear him speak English. He steps back and extends his hand, palm up, towards her. With a sigh, Allie takes it and is pulled to her feet. She underestimates Harry’s strength and oversteps, throwing herself accidentally into his arms.

“Woah!” he chuckles, bracing his hands on her shoulders. “So eager, huh?”

Allie ignores the flush that rises to her cheeks at the feeling of being so close to him and tilts her chin upwards. “No. But I will dance.” She adjusts her dress and moves away from him, into the throng of people moving and twirling as they dance the Black Nag. Briefly, Allie wonders if the King is playing this distinctly English dance just for her. It brings a small smile to her face.

Finally, something she feels comfortable in. She has danced this dance for all of her adult life, and knows it well.

She feels Harry at her back, following her onto the floor, and turns at the appropriate time the music suggests to face him and take his hands in hers. Together, they move across the wooden floor under the flickering candlelight in perfect unison, spinning around one another, touching hands, swirling dresses and robes. He is a good dancer, too, and it brings her a little bit of joy to know they at least have that in common. 

However, the smidge of fun she is having at her own ball does not water down the sourness she feels towards Harry after the events and words exchanged (or rather, overheard) last night.

Catching him off guard, she blurts out, “So what am I going to be next? A boar? A frog?” Harry almost stops dancing, confusion flashing across his face. “No,” she continues with a cruel smile, “that would suit _ you _better, wouldn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” he grinds out.

“Well,” she sighs. “So far I’ve been a rat and a bitch. I’m interested to see which animal you liken me to next.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the same time as he spins away from her and switches partners. “Oh, it was just a joke,” he hisses over the shoulder of the woman he is now dancing with. ”Liven up! Are you always this…how do you say it..._ fâchée?” _

“No, I am not. You just make me so.” Allie twirls around, skirts flying, and reconnects with Harry. He draws her forwards, faces just a breath apart. “And don’t pretend like you don’t know the English word for _ angry _, Harry.” With a push, she’s spinning away again.

The banter is as dizzying as the dancing, and Allie finds she gets a kind of kick out of it. It’s fun to see the Dauphin’s face scrunch up in annoyance as she lets some sharp barb of sarcasm fly. 

As suddenly as it started, the dancing stops. Harry bows to Allie and she curtsies back, then lets him take her hand to lead her back to her seat. As they walk, she notices Helena has been dancing with one of the men Harry had with him the previous night. Tall, broad-shouldered and brown-haired, Allie is pretty certain this young man was the nicer of the bunch. The one who had defended her against the others.Helena is looking up at him with a smile that Allie has never seen before--soft and demure--and he is gazing at her the same way.

Her heart is filled with warmth at the sight. If she can’t have love for herself, she certainly hopes it for her friends.

Then she sees Becca talking in a dim corner of the room with one of the other men from the garden--the one named Jason. What did he say she looked like she’d be? _ Oh, yes, he said I’d be a good fuck _ . Bile rises in her throat as she watches him lean in close to Becca and touch her waist. That is certainly _ not _the kind of man Allie would want her lady to be associated with. She makes a mental note to chat with Becca about the man later.

Harry’s hand drops unceremoniously from hers when they come to her seat, interrupting her train of thought. “You are not so bad at dancing, at least,” he says as he watches her sit down. “This would be dull if you were not.”

“This?”

“Marriage. I have no use for a wife who bores me.”

“Oh?” Allie replies, offended. “Well, I have no use for an arrogant husband, but it seems that I unfortunately will be stuck with one.”

Harry sucks in a hiss of breath and leans down to whisper in her ear. “If that is the way you are choosing to act with me, then _ bien _. But I warn you, I will not make your life easier just because we are to be married.” He straightens up and, with a wide, mocking smile, bends low into a bow. “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness.”

Clenching her jaw in frustration, Allie takes a large gulp of wine and watches as Harry saunters off back onto the dance floor, touching another young woman on the shoulder. The girl, recognised by Allie as Lady Kelly, turns to the Prince with a smile, and gladly accepts what must be his offer of a dance. He pulls her close, like he did with Allie--but unlike the dance before, he doesn’t look annoyed. When he talks to Kelly, he crooks his neck to whisper in her ear, and she laughs, giddy, clutching the back of his robe. They dance close and look natural doing so.

Once, so quick she may have missed it had she not been carefully watching, Harry’s eyes flit over to meet hers. It was intentional, she knows, because the corner of his pretty mouth flicks up into a wry grin before his eyes refocus on the woman in front of him.

A shiver runs down her spine. She can’t be jealous over a man she’s only met twice--and a proud, rude man at that--can she? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooo we’re getting close to the wedding!! poor allie—only a week to go hehehe. next chapter is wedding planning and walks in the garden.......can’t wait for you guys to read! see ya next week
> 
> oh and don’t forget to leave a comment here / on my tumblr @guzmannunier! i loooOOOOOve hearing how you’re finding this story. and as always: tell me what you want to see happen next!!
> 
> and if you Just Can't Wait until the next upload...message me on tumblr and i'll give you a sneak peak of upcoming scenes....if you're like me and LOVE to spoil yourself bc i hate surprises hahaha


	6. cat and mouse for a month, or two, or three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a walk, a hunt, a night before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE U ALL LIKE THIS and i love all of you for all your lovely comments. they literally make my day every single time i read one. can't believe how much love this story is getting! enjoy some gooood hallie banter yay
> 
> title is from ‘paper rings’

The French sun is bright, the sky is blue, and Allie feels like it is finally Spring. 

The three of them--Allie, Helena and Becca--have been tasked with making flower arrangements to be dried and used for decorations at the royal wedding at the end of the week. It’s a menial task, insignificant, but it keeps Allie busy and gives off the appearance to the French court that she is looking forward to the wedding, and to being a wife, engaging in suitably ladylike hobbies such as picking flowers and taking walks in the garden. 

She would, of course, rather be galloping away on her childhood horse across the moors of Devon, chasing rabbits with her dogs for sport. Mud on her dress, wind in her hair, laughing free. She’s not sure if French princesses go hunting like English ones do, and she is strangely afraid to ask. 

It’s not that she cares about getting on the bad side of Harry. They have only known each other a day and have already exchanged heated words on multiple occasions. But there is something within her--maybe it is the spirit of her responsible, respectable sister--that advises her to be on her best behaviour. To appear the perfect princess and the perfect wife-to-be. No galloping, no mess, no fun. _ Be a good girl. Stay in the tower. _

To halt her rambling thoughts, Allie focuses on the bunch of flowers in her basket and rifles through them, removing any that she deems to be of low quality. While she does so, her mind drifts again, but this time to yesterday evening’s ball, and the events she observed.

“Helena, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the man you were dancing with last night,” Allie says. “Who was he?”

“Oh, you know. Just...someone,” Helena replies with a small smile.

“Helena, you don’t have to play coy,” Allie winks. “He’s one of the Dauphin’s men, is he not?”

The black-haired girl’s mouth opens into a little ‘o’. “How did you know?”

“That is a story for another time,” Allie replies with a glint in her eye. 

“We having nothing _ but _ time today, my lady,” comes Becca’s voice over by the roses. 

Allie smiles. “Ah, I suppose you’re right.” She proceeds to tell the two young women about her chance encounter with Harry and his men in the garden the first night they were here. About how Harry was rude, and the boys called her names, but how Luke seemed kind and told the others to be careful about what they were saying. “He asked them to stop with their vulgar language, as I was a Princess and should be respected as such,” Allie says with a knowing grin directed at Helena. “Is he single?”

Helena ducks her head to hide the colour in her cheeks. “Yes, he is.” Allie nods her approval.

“So that is why you seemed so cold toward the Dauphin at the ball yesterday?” Becca asks as she plucks the thorns off of a rose and places it in her basket. “I thought it was strange that you were not interested in him. I mean, he’s handsome--”

“Yes, well, good looks don’t always correlate to a good soul,” Allie says sharply. Then sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be curt. I’m just frustrated that he has been so unkind to me.” She puts the basket down on the grass and braces her hands on her hips. “Do you know what he said to me at dinner? _ ‘I will not make your life easier just because we are to be married.’ _ Some welcome, hmm? And then--and _ then _\--he went off to dance with one of Princess Sara’s ladies. The cheek of him!”

Helena and Becca are watching their lady with barely concealed amusement, sunshine making their skin glow. “He has got you quite worked up, doesn’t he?” Helena says, a laugh bubbling up from deep in her throat. 

“Who is it that has got you ‘worked up’, Princess?” comes a voice from behind the three ladies. Each of them spin around in fright to be confronted by the olive-skinned face of the Dauphin. He wears a crooked grin and stares straight at Allie, who is bravely fighting an embarrassed blush. “May I speak with you, Your Highness?” He looks pointedly at Helena and Becca. “Alone?”

To Allie’s dismay, her two ladies scatter into other areas of the garden, giggling as they go. “What do you want from me, Henry?”

“Call me Harry, please, Allison.”

“Allie,” she says tiredly, picking up her discarded basket and continuing to pick flowers, turning her back to him. “You can call me Allie. Allison is the name my father calls me when he’s mad.”

She feels Harry’s presence at her back as she walks down the path, searching for more beautiful flowers to add to her bunch. It feels so ironic to be picking blooms for an arrangement for the wedding of herself to the insufferable young man standing behind her. 

Harry chuckles. “Oh, so your father is a crazy man, too?”

At that, Allie stops and turns to face him, holding the basket protectively against her chest. She squints up at him against the midday sun. “No, my father is not _ mad _ like that. You know what I mean. Anyway, what did you want to ask me?”

He smiles and crosses his arms over his chest. “I would like to request your presence on a hunt. Tomorrow.”

_ A hunt! _ So, French princesses _ do _have fun. She presses her lips together to fight an excited grin, and makes sure the words coming out of her mouth are measured and even. “A hunt?”

“Yes, Princess. A hunt. Horses, greyhounds, bows and arrows--”

“I know what hunting is.” She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I’m very good with a bow myself.”

“Good.” He looks pleased with himself. “I will see you tomorrow, then.” He steps in front of her and moves past her, the sleeve of his jacket brushing against her arm. “Bring your ladies!” he calls over his shoulder. Then, he is gone, disappearing amongst the roses.

Allie lets out a breath she wasn’t even aware she was holding. She’s going to get out of this place and into the fresh air, the open countryside, tomorrow! Granted, she’ll have to endure the Dauphin’s company, but it’s a small price to pay for the joy that comes with the danger and excitement of the hunt. She can hardly wait.

* * *

The next day is slightly less blue and more blustery, with a strong wind coming from the North that whips her cloak around her ankles and causes hair that’s slipped out of its braid to fly around her face.

But she is outside, on a horse, in the country--and it feels good.

Even if Prince Harry, with that ever-present condescending smirk, is riding beside her.

“How are you finding France?” he calls to her. “After being here for a week?”

“It hasn’t been a week yet.” She has to shout over the howl of the wind.

“You have been counting?”

She hates the tone of his voice, mocking her, as he often does. Even after only a few days, it’s getting old. “If it’s alright with you, I’d rather just focus on the hunt.”

He’s quiet for a moment, the only sound between them the clomping of their horses’ hooves and the sound of men up ahead as their hunting party scouts the land for beasts. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him glance at her with a confused expression, brows furrowed, then listens to him say, “As you wish, Princess.”

Allie watches as he charges on ahead of her to join the rest of the party. She should feel happy to be alone, free from her fiancé, free to enjoy the wind in her hair and the thrill that comes with feeling her body roll under the horse’s power, whipping the reins to urge it ever faster on.

But then there’s the whole thing where she promised her mother she would behave herself, and there’s Cassandra’s voice in her head telling her to _ make friends with him, it will make life easier, I promise _. 

_ Easy for you to say, _ she retorts at the dreamt-up image of her sister, _ you were always so much better at making friends than I. _

_ Not true, _ says fake-Cassandra, _ look at Helena and Becca! They like you. They’re your friends. _

Feeling like an idiot talking to herself, Allie shakes her head to rid herself of Cassandra’s voice and focuses her vision up ahead on the track. Harry’s back is to her, his black hunting cloak billowing out behind him like a cape. He looks a picture of power and stature sat atop his jet black stallion, perfect posture, the thin golden band nestled amongst his dark curls letting anyone know who sees it glint in the sun that this is a man to be loved, a man to be feared, the future King of France.

With a groan and a roll of her eyes, Allie digs her heels into the horse’s sides and gallops ahead.

If Harry is pleased to see Allie back at his side again, he doesn’t show it. “The hounds have found a deer up ahead,” he says to her, although he doesn’t look at her when he speaks. 

“Wonderful,” Allie says, unsecuring her bow and pulling an arrow from its sheath in preparation. “I’ll take this one.”

“No, you won’t.”

“What?”

“A deer is too big. It’s for men, not ladies.”

She is _ infuriated _. “What? That’s—“

He lifts a hand to cut her off. “Find a rabbit or something. That, you can deal with.”

“You’re serious?”

Harry mumbles something she can’t understand in French and rides off, and Allie is left with mouth agape and red-hot fury running through her veins. Just as she had decided to be kind and attempt to form a relationship with her future husband, he turns around and treats her like she’s nothing: a dog to be heeled, a wife to be controlled, certainly not the Princess of the powerful House of Pressman she is.

_ It’s not nice when you get a taste of your own medicine, is it, Allie? _ Cassandra’s voice says. 

_ Leave me alone, Cassandra _, Allie thinks back, secretly wishing her sister really was standing right beside her.

* * *

Four days before the wedding, and alterations are still being made to Allie’s wedding dress.

Sky blue, full-skirted, silver beading matching the colour of the thread. Jewels are sewn into the front of the dress, so every time she moves when wearing it, stones glitter and shine. It’s undoubtedly beautiful, even if Allie feels like a walking chandelier. 

They sew a piece of Cassandra’s wedding dress--the dress that was never worn--into the underside of her skirt at the request of Allie’s parents. The red lace itches her ankle when she walks, but it’s a sweet reminder of the sister in whose steps she’s walking. 

* * *

Allie is walking with her ladies to the Great Hall for dinner when she spots Harry coming towards her, sans Guard, purpose in his stride.

“Allie!” he calls. “_ Je veux parler avec toi _\--sorry, I mean, I want to speak with you.”

“We’re on our way to dinner, Harry, we can’t stop,” Allie says, moving past the prince, who had stopped to stand in the middle of the marble-floored hallway. Helena and Becca, flanking her sides, float around him like they are water, ignoring him completely. After she had complained to the two of them about the names he had called her in the garden and the way he had spoken to her on the hunt, neither young woman is particularly happy with the Dauphin, and both are glad to go along with Allie’s coldness towards him.

“Allie, _ s’il vous plait _,” Harry says, catching her sleeve as she passes and stopping her in her tracks. 

“Let go of me right now.” And he does, sinking into an apologetic bow. Helena and Becca are waiting for her up ahead, but Allie just nods for them to go on ahead, and they do so. Soon, Allie and Harry are the only two people left in the corridor.

Allie crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”

He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “I feel as if we started on the wrong foot,” he says, and is he _ apologising _? This Frenchman sure is strange. “I am sorry I offended you in the garden the first night you were here. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“You seem to say many things you don’t mean,” she replies, lips curled into a snarl.

He tips his head back and sighs again. “Allie. I’m sorry. What can I do to make you like me?”

“It’s not about you liking me, or me liking you, or even _ love _ ,” she says, forcing herself to mean the words and to push the image of Will ( _ love, love, love) _ out of her mind. “This is a political marriage. Let us treat it as one.”

Harry almost looks hurt, or at least surprised. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean we will respect each other, and I won’t care who you dance with--”

“_ Oh _, so this is about other women, then?”

“No! No, that’s not what I said. I said I don’t _ care _ about any of that--”

“It sounds like you care, just a little--”

“I do _ not _, and I don’t appreciate you making fun of me!” she explodes. Fed up, she begins to walk on ahead, fists clenched at her sides.

Footsteps clomping on the marble suggest Harry is running after her. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I’ll stop teasing, I promise.” He catches up to her, his fingers grazing her lower back, and she stops again, shivering slightly at the touch and turning around to face him. “Evidently,” he continues, “we’re in the same boat. Why not be civil with each other?”

She eyes him up and down--at his black cloak, grey doublet, navy hose clinging to stocky, muscled calves, dark hair pulled back under the same felt cap he wore to the ball the other evening. “And what has brought you to this decision? That you’re suddenly going to start acting like a decent human being?”

“I have been doing some thinking,” he says with a wry smile. “We’re getting married in three days. I don’t want to be at war with my wife on our wedding day.”

_ My wife. _ Hearing him say those words makes it all the more real. Allie feels like someone has a hand around her throat. She’s suffocating. “Fine,” she says, swallowing hard. “I will be civil just as long as you are.” 

He grins at her then, toothy and boyish, and she thinks she may be, in a strange and convoluted way, attracted to him. “Look, maybe we could even be friends?”

“Don’t push it, Henry,” she says, beginning to walk ahead of him towards the Great Hall, trying to hide a smile.

“You know,” he calls at her back. “You are quite stunning when you’re angry.”

“Oh, shut up.”

* * *

On the penultimate day before her wedding, Allie receives a letter from her mother and father. It reads like this:

_ “Our dearest Allie, _

_ We are thinking of you on the eve of your wedding day. We are so proud of you. One day, you will be Queen of France, and we will be ever prouder. _

_ We sincerely hope France is treating you well; that you are enjoying the sunshine of this beautiful Spring month, and that the Dauphin and the de Binghams have been kind to you. King Antoine is distant kin on your father’s mother’s side, so we know that he is a kind man and we hope that his wife is, too. _

_ You will find that your dowry has been paid in full, which means you are free to be married with no entanglements still standing. _

_ We know you miss Cassandra. We miss her, too. She would be very proud of you for taking her place and taking this brave step. _

_ All our love, _

_ Father and Mother.” _

Attached to the letter is a smaller note that reads:

_ “I have inquired after Will and he is doing well. I will make sure his life in the palace is a good one with you gone. I am sure he misses you as you must do him, but I also know he would be as proud of you as I am.” _

Both notes are written in her mother’s handwriting, which makes sense, as Allie knows her father would never express such obvious sentimentality. She smiles when she thinks about her dear mother writing these on the desk in her bedchamber. She presses the parchment to her face as if giving it a hug, revelling in the woody perfume the paper gives off.

Oh, how she misses her family. 

* * *

Twelve hours before her slippered feet will make their way down the aisle at Notre Dame Cathedral, Allie is awake in her bed having been unable to sleep.

She has been tossing and turning all night, twisting her bedsheets into a mess. Try as she might, she can’t fall asleep. Terrible anxiety fills her stomach, spreads to her fingers and toes, puts sweat on her brow, makes her shiver and shake in the worst way.

Yesterday, she was Allie of the House of Pressman, seventeen years old, Princess of England. Today, she becomes the wife of the Dauphin of France. 

_What will change?_ _What will stay the same? Will I ever find happiness? Will I ever love him, or him me? Or am I sentencing myself to a loveless lifetime of bickering and coldness and wanting something more?_

Her eyes close in rest, finally, just as the sun comes up.


	7. it isn't love, it isn't hate, it's just indifference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aisle-walking, bed-sharing, love-faking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo this is a little late and i'm sooooorry -- this week has been CRAZY for me -- i got offered my DREAM teaching job straight out of teacher's college (which is crazy !! i was expecting to have to work a crappy job for a while before the dream came along, but this happened so soon!) and i'm starting there (teaching history to high schoolers) in january !! AHHHH
> 
> because of that (interviews, meetings, etc.) i haven't had a lot of time to sit down and write this week -- plus we've had a massive heatwave here in new zealand and it make staying inside on the computer real difficult (especially when there's a beautiful beach 5 mins down the road from my house hehe). 
> 
> but i hope this chapter is worth the wait! i really had some bad writer's block for it until like this afternoon when i wrote the whole last scene in one go....my personal fave scene so far
> 
> enjoy, my friends!
> 
> ps song title is from 'i forgot that you existed'
> 
> pps we're halfway through ?? i'm emosh??? i don't want this to end!! aw

Allie hasn’t taken a full, complete breath since she was laced into her wedding dress this morning—and not only because the corset is too tight. Now, stepping out of the carriage onto the stone path leading into the Notre Dame Cathedral, her anxiety is at an all-time high.

She’s thought about this specific moment for a long time. First, it was imagining Cassandra walking down this aisle. Then, it was herself, and it was coming to terms with the fact that she had become a political pawn, destined to marry someone she didn’t like and barely knew on the orders of some adults who thought they knew better.

But this wedding had always seemed a far-off event, always _ a month, a week, three days, tomorrow _ instead of _ right now. _ Somewhere inside that big, beautiful church was the Dauphin, and in a matter of minutes, he would become her husband.

Ambassador Gordie has been tasked with accompanying her to the altar. He takes her hand as she steps out onto the pavement and offers her a bow and a small smile. “You look radiant, Your Highness. Your parents would be very proud.”

“Thank you, Gordie,” Allie says, surprised at the way her voice catches and water fills her eyes. She blinks the tears away and looks up at the blue, blue sky, then blows out a rush of breath which makes her white veil flutter in front of her face.

_ I don’t feel ready, _ she thinks, _ even though I have to be. _

The giant doors of the cathedral are pulled open by knights in ceremonial full suits of armour. The cathedral is _ so _ grand. Inside the church are hundreds of lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses. The walls are decorated with the coat of arms of the French and English royal families, and the aisle is lined with the dried flowers Allie and her ladies picked in the garden at the beginning of the week. 

_ Has it only been a week? _ Only a week, and it feels like a lifetime.

The opening notes of the wedding march begin to play, the organ booming loud and echoing throughout the church. All the wedding guests stand and turn to watch her enter, a hush falling over the room. If she looks at any of these people--foreigners she doesn’t know--while she walks the exasperatingly long four hundred feet, she may pass out. She really, truly, wasn’t expecting to feel so awfully anxious today.

Instead, she focuses her gaze on Harry, standing with his back to her at the end of the church next to the Archbishop. He wears a white vest and hose that complements the powder blue of her dress, and atop his head a silver crown decorated with jewels so bright, she can see them glittering from across the hall. 

Her feelings towards Harry are complicated, but she feels a sense of peace, of grounding, when she watches his back as she walks. Like he is the eye in the middle of a storm. They may not exactly like each other, but he is the only other person who understands how this feels, and that is a small comfort.

She walks the last hundred feet on her own, slowly stepping in time with the music, feeling every single eye in the room on her back.

Allie finally comes to where Harry is standing. She stares straight ahead at the Pope, too nervous to look at the man standing next to her. 

Harry doesn’t seem to have such reservations. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him turn his head just slightly to glance at her. A tiny hush of breath escapes his lips. She swallows hard.

The ceremony begins. It’s similar to the betrothal ceremony she partook in back in England, but with more ritual elements--holding of sceptres, kneeling and rising multiple times, repeating phrases in Latin, exchanging rings. Allie still feels like she’s holding her breath the entire time and wonders if Harry is the same.

And then the vows are over, and Harry is pressing his lips to hers in quick, cold, close-lipped kiss (no sparks, no feeling), and she’s a married woman.

* * *

The wedding feast is loud and delicious and colourful, even if Allie’s still too tightly wound to enjoy it.

She can’t stop thinking about what happens next. 

Allie isn’t stupid. She knows what she’ll be expected to do. What _ everyone _, not just Harry, will expect her to do. To let him undress her, touch her skin, deflower her (even though that happened a very long time ago), let him feel like he owns her and will always. 

It makes her skin crawl.

Not only because she does not love, or even much like, Harry (although she could not say she hates him), but because of the knowledge that like this marriage, the sex will be forced on her even though she has given consent by way of her wedding vows. It will be forced on her because she will not enjoy it, she could not enjoy it, because there is no love. The love she had is back in England.

She watches Harry dance with his friends in the middle of the palace’s Great Hall, a grand smile on his face, and thinks _ no, I do not hate him, but I don’t think I could love him either. _ At least not the way she loved-- _ loves _\--Will.

And perhaps that is the saddest thought of them all.

Harry, still with that grin on his face, makes his way through the crowd to where she sits at the head of the table. The bejeweled crown he wore this morning is gone, replaced by the golden circlet he wears daily, and he’s still wearing his wedding clothes even after she has been changed into a purple gown. They don’t match anymore. He stinks of alcohol.

“Dance with me, wife,” he says with that smile, and her stomach turns at the word. _ Wife _. 

Remembering their conversation about dancing last week, she reluctantly offers her hand to him and he takes it in his own.

“Your palm is sweaty,” she notes critically.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I have been dancing!” he says with joy, and she wonders how he can be so happy to be married off to someone he barely knows. “And now you will, too.”

The music changes and he pulls her as close as decorum allows. “You’ll probably hate me saying this,” he murmurs in her ear as they spin across the floor. “But you look beautiful.”

Allie swallows a lump in her throat. “You’re right, I do hate it.”

Harry just tips his head back and laughs. “Oh, Allie. Whatever will I do with you?”

* * *

Later, after dancing with Harry and dancing with her ladies and eating copious amounts of food, Allie resigns herself to her seat--a throne, really--at the table and to her goblet of admittedly delicious French wine. From here, she watches the guests at her party and makes observations.

There are Helena and Luke dancing together, smiling at each other, looking to be in the glorious beginnings of infatuation. Becca is nowhere to be seen, and suspiciously, neither is Lord Jason. Sara dances with her father--who is red-cheeked and jolly with too much wine--lithe and graceful with her long blonde hair tied up into pretty braids, laughing as she twirls.

_ The one good thing in all of this _ , Allie thinks _ , is that I got lucky with having a sister-in-law like her. _ Sweet Sara has been nothing but kind to Allie this whole week, going out of her way to make the older girl feel at home, always on hand to back her up against Harry.

Speaking of Harry, there he is dancing again with Lady Kelly, smiling at her like he’d smiled at Allie when he danced with her last, but without any of that underlying animosity she feels around him.

Harry is confusing. He is kind, and then he is cruel, and then he is charming, and then he is dancing with Kelly too close for Allie to feel comfortable. _At least_ _I am consistently cold, _Allie thinks bitterly as she watches them. _How am I supposed to live when I’m never sure if my husband likes me or not, or if it’s just the way he is?_

She thinks again about what comes after this, and her body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

* * *

After the festivities are over and the lords and ladies have all gone to bed, Allie is taken to her bedchambers. There, Helena and Becca undress and redress Allie in expensive silk from China, rub perfumed oil into her skin, let down her hair into loose golden ringlets. 

Then there is a knock on the door, and outside are waiting the Archbishop and the King and Queen, and Allie is accompanied by them down the hallway to the other side of the palace to the Dauphin’s rooms.

When she enters, she finds Harry already sitting up in bed, dressed in white cotton with a solemn expression on his face. Or is it an awkward one? Allie certainly feels awkward. More than she’s ever been in her life.

Too nervous to greet him with words, Allie just nods in his direction. He gives her a tight-lipped smile in return. Someone—she doesn’t pay attention as to who, just focuses on keeping the bile down that’s rising in her throat—lifts the blankets on the bed and ushers her underneath them. There’s some more awkwardness as the Archbishop sprinkles holy water over the bed while her new mother and father-in-law watch with interest. Helena and Becca left the room as soon as Allie was in bed, and she wishes they hadn’t.

Finally, the strange pre-coital ritual is over, and the King and Queen are smiling at the two of them in bed, and Harry is saying _ goodnight, mother _ but Allie is too anxious to make her mouth move. Then, Harry and Allie are alone.

For a few moments, the only sounds in the room are the crackling of the fire in the corner of the bedchamber and soft hush of their breath. The two of them stay sitting still in the bed, refusing to look at one another, perhaps waiting for the other to make the first move. Allie can feel the heat radiating from Harry’s skin, his thigh almost touching hers. She feels as if moving her leg slightly to the side and touching his skin even so lightly would start something dangerous, insinuating something she doesn’t want. So she waits for him. And it works.

Harry breaks the silence with a sigh. “Did you have a good time tonight?” His voice is quiet, like he almost sounds nervous, which does not match up with the prince she’d seen today and all the days before, dancing and laughing guileless and free, not a care in the world. 

Despite sensing his potential anxiety, Allie doesn’t fake niceties. “Not particularly,” she says bluntly, and Harry rewards her honesty with a small huff of a laugh.

“Neither did I, if I am completely honest,” he says, and turns his face toward hers. They are very close. Too close. She notices, briefly, just how long and dark his eyelashes are, and how beautifully they frame those amber eyes of his. She swallows.

“You didn’t seem that way,” she says, looking down at her hands, her twiddling thumbs. “You seemed like you were having a grand old time.”

“Ah,” he says, and Allie can hear the smile in his voice before she even looks up and sees it. “That’s the trick. Something I thought you would have already learnt, being a princess and all.” He sighs again and leans back into the pillows, shuffling down into them so that she is now looking down at his face. “Sometimes when you are not happy, the only way to feel okay is to pretend to be. You laugh, you dance, everyone thinks you are doing fine. And then you hope that the more you pretend, the more you really feel it.”

He is still smiling, but now it seems more bittersweet, and she feels a pang of care for him for the first time. She is, just for a moment, looking under his mask. A mask she wasn’t even aware he was wearing.

Allie chooses her next words carefully, not wanting to appear too interested. She studies his face as his gaze is turned away from her towards the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest. Her voice is soft but steady. “Are you pretending with me?” Asking such a question sets her nerves on edge, even though she hates that it does. 

“No,” he replies, still smiling somewhat sadly. “I don’t think so.” He turns his face towards hers, his cheek resting on the pillow. “And I have a sense I will continue to be unable to.” 

All of a sudden, the air feels very thick. Harry is looking at her with those dark eyes, and she is looking right back, and she feels seen, truly seen, for the first time since she left England. Then Harry is pushing himself up onto his elbows and leaning in close to her, tilting his chin upwards, his mouth coming in line with hers, his breath on her cheek.

She almost lets him kiss her. Lets him touch her, make her his, do what a husband should do. Maybe it would be easier to truly get it over and done with as soon as possible? And it’s not as if he is ugly, or terrible, or vile. He is very handsome, and somewhat kind despite being childish at times. _ It could be a lot worse _ , she thinks, _ perhaps I will just grin and bear this. _

Then she actually feels the weight of Harry’s hand on her shoulder, tugging the sleeve of her nightgown down, and she freezes.

Her mind flashes to the last time she was touched in this way—by Will in that moonlit little room—and this feels like a betrayal. “Wait!” 

Harry’s hand stills, then retracts, and he looks at her with a confused expression which translates to one of knowing when he sees the fear in her eyes. “It’s okay, Allie,” he says, voice low and gentle. “I won’t hurt you. Well, I will try my best not to. It may hurt the first time, but it will get easier.” 

Oh. _ Oh. _

He thinks she’s hesitant because she’s a virgin.

_ What to do, what to do? _she thinks frantically. Does she lie and say that she is? Or does she follow in Harry’s footsteps and trust him with the knowledge that she is not a virgin? Both options will result in consequences she’s not sure she wants to deal with, but she doesn’t have much of a choice. Allie decides to go with the latter. If he started this marriage with honesty tonight, she will do the same.

She exhales heavily. “That’s not exactly what I’m worried about.” 

Harry searches her face, a frown on his lips. Then the bright light of realisation flashes across his eyes, and he breathes out an, _ “Oh _.” He leans back. “You’re not a virgin?” Allie shakes her head, her hands shaking with adrenaline. She half expects him to order her to leave the room and never come back—after all, no future King of France wants someone’s second hand goods. But he doesn’t. Instead, he offers her a smile. “That’s okay.”

Allie is taken aback. “That’s okay? _ Really? _”

“Well, what do you want me to say? It’s not like _ I _ can act all high and mighty.”

Then, just as soon as the walls between them had fallen away, they are resurrected. He blinks, and the tenderness that was in his eyes disappears, replaced with that now-familiar effervescent charm, the banter, and the casual animosity that has existed between them since the moment she first laid eyes on him in the palace garden.

“You’re not a virgin either?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

He raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms. “What do you think, Princess?”

“Okay, well, you don’t have to be so arrogant,” she grumbles, folding her own arms to mirror his.

“I’m not being arrogant. I’m only stating a fact.”

“Harry, this really isn’t the time for making jokes.”

“I’m not trying to joke! _ Mon dieu _, you are hard to please.”

How the gentleness that was there before evaporated so quickly, she’s not sure. But it’s gone now.

Allie shuffles down the bed under the covers and tucks the blankets up to her chin. “Can we just go to sleep?” she sulks, turning her body away from his.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

She hears him adjust his own position in the bed, feels the blankets pull tight across her shoulders. She resists the urge to tug them closer to her, but that would probably mean Harry would pull them back, and they’d end up in a tug-o’-war she didn’t have the energy to play. “Look,” he says to her back. “I tend to move around in my sleep, so I’m sorry if I kick you accidentally, or end up touching you—“

“It’s fine. I don’t care. Just go to sleep.”

Harry mumbles an _ okay _ and turns over to rest his head on the pillow. Then the room is plunged into silence once again. Allie breathes deeply and closes her eyes, welcoming the pleasure of sleep.

This silence doesn’t last. “Wait!” Harry exclaims, sitting up and rustling her shoulder. “They’re going to check for, you know, the blood tomorrow. What do we do?”

Allie squeezes her eyes shut and groans. “Find me a knife.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask questions. Just find me a knife.” Allie silently thanks God for the sweet blessing it is that Harry stops asking questions and gets out of bed. She flips onto her back and stretches her arms above her head, yawning loudly, as Harry roams the room in his search for something that resembles a knife. With a muffled sound of excitement, Harry returns to the bed and hands over a small pair of scissors. 

“Will these do?”

Allie takes them from his hand and pricks the end of her pinky finger to check the sharpness of the blades. Satisfied, she nods, then looks at him and says, “Don’t look.”

He quirks an eyebrow as if to say _ what for? _ then quickly turns his head when she bends her knees and begins to lift up the hem of her nightgown. She swears she even saw a slight blush paint his cheeks, and smiles internally at the thought of such a thing. 

With Harry’s eyes averted, Allie pulls her skirt up to her hips and uses the scissors to make a small incision along her inner thigh, then carefully squeezes the skin to push out a few drops of blood which fall onto the white bedsheets, making a tiny puddle of red. It stings and she hisses in pain, which makes Harry turn his head towards her to see what’s going on.

“Harry!” she snaps, quickly covering up her body, embarrassed at him being exposed to her most intimate parts. Both sets of cheeks redden and look away from one another. 

“I didn’t see anything, I promise!” he pleads, lifting his hands in surrender as he turns away from her again.

Allie sighs and wipes the scissors clean on the sheets, then places them on the wooden table at the bedside. “I’m finished now. You can look.”

Tentatively, as if he’s not quite sure she’s telling the truth, Harry moves back to face her. He opens his mouth as if to ask a question, but she answers it before he can speak. “Old trick I learnt from my sister. No one will know the difference.”

To his credit, he doesn’t inquire further about her sister or her experiences, or even about Allie’s own lack of virginity, but just runs a hand over his tired face and looks at her with an expression she could only perceive as wonder: like he’s surprised by her, in a good way. Marvelling at the woman she is.

“You really do think of everything,” he says, and that softness that was here before is back again. It makes her stomach squirm, and she’s not sure if that’s a positive thing or not. 

Too many thoughts, too many feelings, and the pain in her thigh makes it hard to keep her eyes open. Time to call it a night. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He grins, always charming, and it reaches his eyes this time around. “Goodnight, wife.”

“Oh, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOO damn that was fun to write
> 
> next chapter is gonna be a looooong one, with events that take place over two weeks (allie and harry are going on a honeymoon!) so expect a bit longer a wait than a week (and if it gets posted before then, BONUS). i'll have a chapter of 'bloody shirt' up soon to tide ya'll over in the meantime!!
> 
> and thank you for the lovely messages/comments/encouragement to keep writing -- makes my day every time


	8. stick with me, i'm your queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a honeymoon and some unexpected events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'll i am SORRY this took so long to get up here. so much for the "one chapter a week" shtick, huh???? my excuses are 1. i was on holiday in the USA for two weeks and didn't do much writing there bc, holiday,,, 2. it's almost CHRISTMAS and i've been busy busy busy, 3. writing is HARD. 
> 
> i hope this chapter makes up for the wait. it's a BIG one
> 
> enjoy my beautiful readers xoxo
> 
> also song of the chapter is: 'london boy'
> 
> ALSO a while back my lovely friend lina made me a GIFSET based on this story....wtf i know......click here to have a look and show it some love bc it's beautfiuLLL: https://allieprxssman.tumblr.com/post/188475539136/no-he-does-not-maybe-its-more-likeas-if-he

A few weeks into married life, and Allie can’t say that she’s enjoying it.

Harry had been kind on their wedding night, and because of that she had allowed herself to let her guard down and to believe, perhaps naively, that he would continue to be that way now that they are married. But since the wedding, all Harry has wanted to do is to drink and dance and go off hunting with his friends, while Allie has been stuck in the palace, working on her sewing and her playing of the harp. It’s not that Harry has been rude to her, per se, just ignoring her completely.

Half of her is grateful that he doesn’t attempt to touch her when they go to bed. That he always averts his eyes when she dresses, never pulls her close in the middle of the night. She knows he does these things because it was something they had basically agreed on at their wedding night, when she cut her foot and they never kissed and slept back to back. Allie appreciates that he respects her wishes, she really does, but she’s starting to feel strange about it all. Like there’s something wrong. Something missing. She tells herself it’s a good thing, this lack of intimacy, and busies herself with daydreams being back in London, back at Westminster and walking the gardens with a certain someone.

And so Allie is bored and feeling a little frustrated and lost. Thankfully, there’s a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel in that they’re about to embark on their honeymoon to Dijon, the central city of the Burgundian region ruled by Harry’s aunt, Duchess Fleur de Bingham. She’s heard Dijon is beautiful and sunny this time of year, and that the Duchess throws the best parties and banquets. 

Something to look forward to, at least.

The three days they spend on the road to Dijon are easy. Harry and Allie share a carriage but don’t talk much, choosing instead to sleep or stare out the window at the French countryside rolling by. Allie has the misfortune—or fortune, perhaps—of getting her monthly course while travelling, which means the two of them sleep separately when they stop to make camp. She’s grateful for this, as it provides a good excuse as to why the prince and princess aren’t sharing a bed, and relieves some of that awkwardness.

The three quiet—and admittedly lonely—days are worth it when they finally arrive in Dijon at the castle of Harry’s Aunt Fleur, and the world around the two of them bursts into sound and colour.

The Burgundian court is impossibly more vibrant, busy, decadent, fashionable, and outrageous than even the royal court at Versailles, and Allie can barely believe it. Duchess Fleur greets them at the gates of the castle. She’s a tall, silver-haired woman with teeth whiter than Allie’s ever seen, dressed in the most luxurious-looking purple velvet, her hair weaved up into an elaborate conical headdress. She, like the massive castle she lives in, is magnificent.

“Bienvenue à Dijon, mon cheri!” Fleur says in thickly-accented Burgundian French, of which Allie barely understands. The Duchess opens her arms and envelopes her nephew in a tight hug, and Allie is taken aback at how affectionate she’s being—such displays at home in England are not only uncommon, but rather inappropriate. Fleur reaches out to hug Allie too, and she reluctantly obliges, letting herself be swept up by this Amazon of a middle-aged woman, smothered by the heavy perfume she wears. 

“Vous devez être ma nouvelle nièce, la Rose anglaise.” _ You must be my new niece, the English Rose _ . “Ah, Harry, elle est belle. Tu as bien fait. Tu es heureux, non?” _ She is beautiful. You have done well. You are happy, no? _She claps her nephew on the shoulder and he laughs, reaching out an arm to loop around Allie’s waist. 

“We are very happy, yes, Aunt Fleur.” Harry turns to look over at Allie, a wide smile that looks half-forced plastered across his face. He squeezes her shoulder a little too tight and Allie smiles in response, gritting her teeth. 

Fleur welcomes them inside and soon they’re shown to their rooms—spacious, extravagantly decorated—and treated to a lunch in the banquet hall. The nobles at the Burgundian court are as handsome as the surroundings, and Harry seems to know every single Lord and Lady, taking Allie on his arm, spinning around the hall, introducing her to a cousin, a great uncle, a friend of his father’s while she smiles and curtsies like the good princess she is. 

_ Two weeks of this _ , Allie thinks. _ How can I survive two weeks here? _

* * *

The couple spends most of their time apart during the first half of the holiday: Allie with her ladies hunting and walking and riding; Harry with his gentlemen drinking all day and practicing for the jousting tournament organised for next week. It’s not until the Monday of the second week that Harry expresses interest in joining her on one of her excursions.

The bright Burgundian sun wakes her up in the early morning, rays filtering through stained glass windows. She blinks her eyes open and stretches her arms above her head with a yawn before rolling out of bed. She’ll need to return to her personal bedchamber next door to have her ladies dress her for the day. Helena and Becca are likely up and waiting already. 

Harry stirs beside her. “Where are you going?” he asks, voice muffled by the pillow on which he rests. Allie turns to look at him over her shoulder as she runs a brush through her long curls, a small smile creeping up on her face as she takes in his ruffled bed hair and squinty eyes.

“I’ve organised a fox hunt this morning with my ladies and the Duchess.”

He grunts and pushes himself off the pillow and onto his elbows. “I’m coming with you.”

Her hand, mid-brush, stills. “You’re what?”

“I’ve barely seen you all week,” he says with a lazy grin, and Allie is struck with the uncomfortable realisation that her new husband is one of those frustrating people who manages to roll out of bed and look the way he does without even trying. “I want to join you.”

She swallows and resumes brushing her hair. “You can’t. Ladies only.”

“I am the Crown Prince of France,” Harry says, stretching his arms above his head. “I can do whatever I want, _ ma cherie _.” 

He calls her _ my darling _ in a voice slick with sarcasm, but it’s the first time he’s called her such a word of endearment and it stirs something low in her belly. Something, when paired with the sight of his tanned skin rippling with muscles underneath as he stretches, she doesn’t like.

“Fine,” Allie says, eager to end the conversation and go to get dressed. “You can come. But only if you behave.”

Harry throws her another grin that she catches as she glances at him before walking out of the room and into the adjacent chamber. “See you soon, Allie!” he calls at her back.

* * *

Her husband is, as he tends to be, late to the start of the hunt. Many times in the last half hour, Allie has considered leaving him behind and riding off with Helena (Becca had stayed behind in bed as she was not feeling well) and she’s thinking of doing this for real when she finally hears Harry’s voice calling her name. 

She turns to see the prince sauntering casually down the path towards the gates of the palace, flanked by his ‘Guard’ of men, servants with horses and hunting dogs with their handlers. Harry wears a smug smile as he watches Allie cross her arms in annoyance.

“Why are you so late?” she hisses through gritted teeth.

“No reason,” Harry says, stepping right up close to her. She notices, not for the first time, that the height difference between them is quite drastic. Her nose would just graze his chin if he moved close enough for them to touch. “Maybe I just like making you wait, _ ma cherie _.” 

And there it is again! _ He must know how annoying that is _, she thinks, shuffling to the side to get out from under his presence. “We’re leaving right away,” she calls over her shoulder. “Best get on your horse.” With agility learned from years of riding, Allie climbs up onto her horse, a jet-black palfrey, and without a look back at her husband, sets off into the lush forest surrounding the palace.

As Allie rides away, she hears Harry yell in French, ordering his servants to help him mount his horse, and soon there is the telltale sounds of horse hooves clopping along a gravel path. Allie’s almost at the front of the pack, second only to the scout leading the party, when Helena sidles up beside her astride her own horse.

“You and Harry seem...tense?” the woman offers, flashing a wry smile at her mistress and friend. “Is everything okay?”

Allie clenches her jaw and keeps her eyes focused on dodging the trees in their path and keeping her horse at a trot. “To be honest with you, Helena, I’m not quite sure. He’s—it’s—“

“Complicated?”

Relaxing a little, Allie breathes out a sigh. “Exactly. Marriage is...complicated. One minute I think we’re friends, the next it’s like we don’t even exist in the same universe to each other. I didn’t think it would be easy, and it’s not exactly hard, it’s just...strange.” She catches herself from ranting too much more about her relationship with Harry and turns to glance over at her lady. Helena is beautiful, as always, in a dark blue gown, black hair tightly braided in a practical style suited for the day’s adventures. And there’s a new addition to her outfit that compliments her exotic beauty: a gold chain strung around her neck with a cluster of rubies as a pendant. “Enough about that, though. How are you? And where did you get that gorgeous necklace?” Allie asks with a wink, already able to guess the answer.

Helena lowers her gaze for a moment and blushes. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a gift from someone,” she says quietly, to which Allie laughs.

“Someone, I’ll bet! It’s that handsome Lord Holbrook, isn’t it?” Helena’s cheeks turn ever redder in response. “Has he proposed marriage to you yet?”

“No, my lady. My duty to you comes first.” She sounds wistful, like she wants to believe the words she’s saying but doesn’t quite. Allie doesn’t blame her.

“Nonsense. Love must always come first. And marriage is important for Becca and you, too,” Allie smiles. The scout riding in front of the two ladies calls over his shoulder that his dogs have found a scent just as they ride into a clearing in the woods. Allie and Helena slow their horses to a stop. “That reminds me,” Allie continues, “is Becca alright?”

Helena grimaces. “I think so. She was vomiting this morning something awful and was too weak to get out of bed, but the physician said it wasn’t anything to be worried about. Perhaps something she ate.”

Allie smiles a reply, and then Harry and the men finally catch up with them, and Harry is riding up beside her and making some kind of joke about the condition of her dress, and she’s wishing they were hunting deer today so she could take the bow that is usually attached to her saddle and fire an arrow into his back as revenge. 

It’s been a long day, and it’s not even noon.

The hunt goes well for them all. The hounds manage to catch a red fox that is ceremonially killed by the prince, the spring weather is lovely, and while Allie usually prefers deer hunting she will admit she enjoys the chase of a good fox hunt. 

Harry and her ride side-by-side at the back of the hunting party as they return to the palace in the afternoon. They’re far enough away from anyone else that they can talk in private without someone overhearing. Allie decides she’s going to use this opportunity to talk to him about the “complications” in their marriage she had been discussing with Helena. These days, Harry is so tired from a day of frivolity that he falls asleep as soon as they get into bed, so no private conversations can be had there.

“Harry,” she says quietly, without looking at him, keeping her eyes on the path ahead. “I want to ask you something.”

“Alright,” he replies after a beat of silence. “Are you going to ask me the question you have, or are you just going to _ tell _ me you want to ask me, and leave it at that?”

“What—that’s—_ ugh _. See this is exactly what I’m talking about…” she grumbles to herself.

“And what is that?”

Allie sighs. _ Out with it, then. _ “That I want you to start treating me like your _ wife. _”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He has the nerve to sound a little offended.

“I mean that you constantly belittle me, treat me like a child when I am barely two years younger. You seem to forget that I am a princess in my own right, that I’m not lesser to you in any way.” The words are spilling right out of her now, all in one long breath. She’s glad the rest of the party are too far away to hear. “You make fun of me to your friends _ and _ to my face. And the times when I think you see me as an equal, maybe even as a friend, are so rare and far between that I struggle to remember they ever happened.”

Harry is quiet at that for a long few moments, processing the wave of information Allie has just dumped over his head. She focuses on holding the reins tight and keeping her palfrey on course, trying not to imagine what kind of thoughts are bouncing around his head. Did she say too much? Probably. Wives, like children, are generally meant to be seen and not heard. But when has that ever stopped Allie?

Finally, he speaks. In a voice softer than she was anticipating. “I wasn’t aware you felt that way,” he says. “I was under the impression you rather liked me being detached, leaving you to your own devices and freedoms. I didn’t know that you--”

“I’m not saying I’m angry at you for not showing me affection,” Allie interrupts with a slight blush colouring her cheeks, knowing deep down that some part of that sentence is untrue. “Lord knows I’m fine with how we are with...that.” She sees Harry smirk out of the corner of her eye and fights the urge to roll her eyes at him. “I would just rather you treat me as who I am--your equal--and who I will one day be--your Queen. It’s what I deserve,” she finishes, channeling the power and confidence of a thousand Cassandras. 

“It’s what you deserve,” Harry echoes. “Alright. I’ll work on that.” He slows his horse down as they reach the palace gates again and Allie copies him with her own steed. 

“Good.” _ Perhaps, with better communication, this marriage thing could work _ , she thinks, happy she said something even though it was relatively embarrassing to voice out loud. _ I hope I didn’t come across as too needy _, she wonders, then mentally chastises herself for thinking so. 

The hunting party begins to walk through the now-open gates and back into the palace grounds, and the royal couple follow them. Allie spies Helena glancing back to check she’s okay. She nods to her lady in affirmation, then refocuses her attention on Harry.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if there’s another version of this world where we’re actually friends,” she says in a hushed voice. They’re closer to the group now, and she’s afraid someone might hear. “Where we want the same things, look out for each other, work together.”

Her husband surprises her with a wide, tender smile. “Anything’s possible, I guess,” he says, like he’s looking at this future he didn’t expect with soft eyes for the first time.

* * *

After the conversation had on the way home from the fox hunt, Allie’s time with Harry has gotten a little easier. They’re a little more comfortable around each other now, after knowing how the other feels about this situation they’re in. It’s like Harry is _ genuinely _ heeding her request to treat her more like his equal, more like his wife. 

Sometimes, though, he gets a little too familiar.

“Turn around, Harry.”

“Why?”

“Is it not obvious? I’m trying to get dressed for bed,” Allie replies, biting her lip with a smile. Helena had been preoccupied with taking care of Becca, who continues to be unwell, this evening, so the changing of Allie’s clothes has to be done on her own. 

“Fine,” he says, and there’s some rustling of pillows that suggest he’s turned away from her. 

Allie busies herself with untying the fastenings of her gown, slipping out of the luxurious purple velvet she’d worn that day and stepping into her nightgown, then takes some time to brush out her hair. Once finished, she climbs into bed beside Harry, who sits with his eyes closed and arms tucked behind his head. 

He peeks an eye open. “Can I look now?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Good.” As she shuffles down under the covers, he moves towards her and slings an arm around her waist to pull her close. And that’s when she feels something hard and unfamiliar pressing against her back, and--_ oh! _

“Harry!” she hisses, pushing him away and giving him her best death stare. He just grins.

“What?! I’m not going to apologising for being human! I’m not blind.” _ As if that’s a good excuse. _

“I told you not to look!”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, all the while grinning that awful smile. “I try to listen to most of your advice, but some things I choose to ignore.”

“You’re insufferable."

“So what if I am?”

“How much wine have you had tonight?” she says in a mocking tone, rolling over onto her side so she faces away from him.

“Not nearly enough to put up with all your complaining, _ ma cherie _,” he replies in a tone that matches hers.

“Stop calling me that!” she grumbles.

“What! I thought you wanted me to treat you more like my wife?” He cheekily snakes his arm up her side until he’s pulled her close to him again. She quickly shrugs him off, not wanting a repeat of that nice surprise she got earlier. 

“Yes, but—oh, nevermind,” she sighs. “Just roll over and go to sleep.”

He hums an affirmative reply and dutifully turns so his back is to hers, as they lie every night. The room falls into a perfect silence, and Allie closes her eyes, readying herself for sleep. She’s right on the cusp of drifting off when Harry’s voice interrupts her peace. 

“Do you miss your family?”

Her eyes blink open with a start. She surely wasn’t expecting that kind of question from him, and at this hour of the night. But maybe she should have. After all, as Harry said, _ she _was the one who asked him to treat her like his wife, and she guesses that means asking personal questions and expecting personal answers.

She humours him. “Of course I miss my family, Harry,” she whispers. Now that the candles have been blown out for the night, it feels strange to talk in normal noise levels in the dark. It feels much more intimate. He doesn’t reply right away, and Allie wonders if he was merely a leeptalking. 

“I’m sorry you had to leave your family to come here and be with me. I don’t know what I would do if that was me. If I had to leave Sara.”

He sounds genuine, and so Allie smiles. She can feel the heat of his body at her back and she realises that she gets a lot of comfort from having him in the same bed as her, even if they’re not touching. She’s grown used to it now, and it feels nice to have him there. “Well, you’re the lucky one,” she says. Her mind flashes back for a moment to snapshots of her life in England: the faces of her parents, Will’s smile, the swirling fabric of Cassandra’s dress as they danced together as children in the garden. A tiny drop of water escapes her eye and falls onto her pillow. “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if Cassandra had lived, and she had been here instead of me?”

If Harry’s taken aback by her honesty and the intimacy of the moment, he doesn’t flinch. “No,” he says, and she hears him roll over onto his back. She doesn’t look, but she imagines him staring up at the canopy of the bed, his dark eyes searching for something there. “I can honestly say I do not. I might have thought about it before you arrived, as I’d had no kind of correspondence with you at all compared to your sister. I knew her better than I knew you, even though I’d never met her.” Allie remembers reading those letters with Cassandra and laughing at Harry’s words, a boy playing at being a man. Harry clears his throat. “But once you arrived, well, no. I never thought about what it would be like if things were different. It was always just you.”

Allie bites her lip to hide a smile, even though he can’t see her. “I’m not sure if that’s pragmatic or romantic.”

“Perhaps both.”

“Perhaps.”

He doesn’t reply to her, and Allie assumes he’s gone to sleep. She tucks this sweet conversation away into her mind for safe-keeping, to remember later, when their personalities clash again and she gets frustrated, that it’s not so bad being married to Harry. Then, he surprises her again, with a soft, scratchy voice that says:

“I like to think we _ are _ friends.”

She turns her body to face his. “What?”

“You and I. That alternate universe.” He’s turned to face her, too. She can barely see the whites of his eyes in the darkness. In this one moment, they’re no longer the future King and Queen of the most powerful nation in continental Europe. They’re just two teenage kids. “Maybe we’re already in it.”

“Maybe so,” she replies. She closes her eyes with a secret smile and falls deliciously into a long, lovely sleep.

* * *

The Prince has organised a joust for the end of their Spring honeymoon in Dijon, and so on this particularly warm Monday afternoon, Allie and her ladies take their seats in the covered wooden stands that line the four corners of the jousting course. Banners in the colour of the Duchess Fleur’s House of Burgundy fly proudly all around the field, where a hundred or so local nobles are seated waiting for the event to start.

Allie sits alone on a little wooden throne with a plush pillow seat and gold trim while her ladies sit on a bench below her. All of them are wearing beautiful gowns that match the colours of the Burgundian coat of arms: Allie in the deep burgundy red which takes its name from that of the duchy, Helena in a royal blue that highlights her complexion, and Becca, still looking a little worse for wear but trying her hardest to appear fine, in a playful yellow. 

Harry and his men of the Guard are absent as they will be the knights fighting in this tournament, with other knights from as far away as Lyon having been specially picked to joust against the Dauphin and his gentlemen this afternoon. Allie’s not worried about Harry’s wellbeing--not that she generally is, anyway--as the knights of the opposition are under strict instruction to not hurt the Prince in any way, shape or form. The same rules do not apply to his gentlemen. She’s seen Helena anxiously bite her fingernails more than once since they sat down. Thankfully, knights rarely get seriously hurt in these kinds of tournaments, so Lord Luke is unlikely to come away with anything more than a few cuts and bruises.

While she waits for the first joust to start, which has been announced to be Lord Jason and a contender from Plombieres, Allie fiddles with the corner of the red handkerchief she holds in her hands. This slip of fabric symbolises her love, and when the time comes Harry will ride over to her and outstretch his lance to have her wrap the kerchief around the end of it, giving him ‘her favour’ for the joust ahead.

It’s a wildly romantic gesture and one that Allie is half uncomfortable making. She almost tried to ‘forget’ the fabric back in her rooms in order to avoid this. However, she knows that a joust without such a display of courtly love between the Prince and his wife would be incredibly strange.

A bugle sounds and Lord Jason rides out into the field, broad-shouldered and proud. He steers his horse toward the covered stands where the ladies sit and Allie is unpleasantly surprised when he points his lance towards Becca and the young woman wraps her own white scarf around the tip of it. Allie had hoped, many weeks ago when she saw them dancing at that banquet, that no dalliance had occurred between them, but it seems unfortunately that there has been one. 

Lord Jason rides off to take his first position and the joust begins. Jason is almost thrown off his horse in the first round, but manages to hold his ground. In the fourth round, however, his opponent’s lance catches in his armour and he falls to the sand with a thud and a gasp from the crowd. He is not hurt, but has still lost the joust. His opponent from Plombieres receives his award of gold coins and cheers from the crowd--it seems this knight is a favourite in the area, based on the noise of the spectators. 

Next is Lord Holbrook. He rides out onto the court with impeccable posture for someone so tall, making a beeline for Lady Helena. Helena, the sweetheart that she is, presses a chaste kiss to the purple kerchief she holds before tying it around the lord’s lance. Luke has his helmet flipped up so all can see the beaming grin that lights up his face, matched by the same smile on Helena’s. 

He dips his head to her and says, “I fight for only you, my lady.” As if remembering where is he and in whose company he is in, Luke flits his eyes to meet Allie’s and clears his throat, bends into as low as a bow he can manage on his horse, and adds, “And for you, Your Highness.”

Allie just laughs and waves him off, and he leaves with one last look back at his beloved, who is tenderly clutching the ruby and gold necklace he’d given to her as a present. Luke wins his joust with skill and ease, collecting his prize and a kiss on the cheek from Helena with an ear-splitting grin.

There are a few jousts between local knights Allie doesn’t know, and one between Lord Clark and another, before Harry’s turn is up. He is the last battle of the afternoon. The sun sits low in the sky, and Allie worries briefly that it could hinder Harry’s ability to see. Then she remembers how difficult it is to see out of those thick metal helmets the men wear and becomes anxious that he may not be able to see _ at all! _ Jousting has been banned in England for over a century and she’s never seen one in real life before, so these worries feel very real to her. Even if, as she assumes, Harry is a gifted knight.

He rides onto the field to an uproarious cheer from the crowd, helmet off, black hair ruffled by the wind. The heavy armour he wears makes him look much stronger and bulkier than usual, and Allie finds she doesn’t hate the sight of him all dressed up like that. He sure does look handsome and brave. These thoughts are completely private, of course. She’d never admit it to anyone that she’s beginning to find him more and more attractive--and especially not to her husband. Compliments such as those would swell his head so much it’d not fit in his helmet any longer.

Harry waves to the crowd as he slowly ambles over on his massive black warhorse to where Allie is sitting. He flashes her the most devilish grin as he comes near, like he knows she’s finding this awkward. 

He leans into a bow. “My lady.”

“My lord.”

“May I have the honour of wearing your favour this afternoon?” he asks, voice as smooth as melted butter.

“You may,” she replies, fighting the urge to roll her eyes at this whole thing. _ No wonder they banned this back home _ , she thinks sourly, _ how ridiculous this is! _ She is conveniently ignoring, of course, the way her hand shakes when she attaches her handkerchief to Harry’s lance and looks up to see him staring at her with that same look he gave her outside the palace gates the other day. The one where he’s looking at her like he _ sees _ her. She doesn’t like the way it makes her feel.

Harry then fixes his helmet and goes to line his horse up to face his opponent’s. They’re separated by two hundred metres of sand, with a wooden barrier running down the middle to prevent their horses from accidentally hitting one another. He flips down the visor of the helmet and readies his lance for the charge. On the bugle’s call, he squares his shoulders, one hand on the lance, one hand on the reins, and charges forward. 

The two horses race as fast as they can as the men throw themselves forward to the roar of the crowd. They get closer and closer until the moment of impact is imminent, and Allie holds her breath, and the sun is glinting off the chainmail Harry wears, and their lances are poised to clash when--_ CRASH! _ Harry is struck in the chest and falls violently off his horse, twisting in the air to land on his left arm with a crunch. The crowd falls silent for a moment in shock before erupting into noise again as physicians rush onto the field to tend to the fallen knight, who is lying motionless in the sand. 

Allie can’t help it. She’s terrified. “My God! Harry!” she yells, standing up from her seat, head nearly touching the roof of the stands. She begins to clamber down the steps of the stand down to the barrier of the field, shielding her eyes from the sun so she can see him better. As far as she can tell, he’s still not moving. “Let me see him!” she begs of the guards who stand at the barrier, keeping her from climbing over it as she so wants to. “_ Laisse-moi le voir, s'il te plait _! Let me go to him!” 

“Your Grace, we can’t—“

“Let me _ through.” _ The toughness in her voice must have worked because thankfully, the guards let her pass. She wriggles through the small gate of the barrier, not caring if her dress rips on any splinters as she does so, then sprints as well as she can in heeled slippers to where Harry lies.

“Harry!” she breathes, bending down to lift up the visor of his helmet. Expecting to see him unconscious, she is startled to find him awake and smiling. “What—“

“Oh, _ mon Dieu _, that was an adventure!” he laughs, reaching up to pull off his helmet.

“You’re—you’re not hurt?” Allie straightens up and takes a step back.

“Oh, yes, I was struck quite heavily in the shoulder, but I’ll live.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position and, gritting his teeth again what she presumes to be pain, stretches out his left arm for his squire, a young boy not older than twelve, to remove his armour. Underneath it, she sees the sleeve of his tunic is stained red with blood. “Thank you for being so worried about me, though, Princess,” he says with a glint in his eye.

“I’m not—I wasn’t—“

Harry ignores her stuttering and swivels to face his friends, who have gathered around him to check on his well-being. “Clark! How’d it look? Did I look dashing and brave?”

“Quite the opposite, my Lord, and quite hilarious!” The two of them disintegrate into laughter and Allie is livid, both at Harry for making light of what could have been a serious situation, and herself for worrying so much about him that she completely embarrassed herself by practically jumping the fence and ruining her dress to come to him.

She can’t quite stay mad at him, though. Later, when they’re walking back to the palace and he turns to her and asks, “How do I look?” with his face splattered with mud, and his hair sticking up from all angles, she can’t help but offer him a sarcastic smile and reply:

“I’ve never wanted you more.”

* * *

The feast they have after the jousting tournament is elaborate and decadent. Allie tries meats she’s never tasted, all kinds of cheeses, and wines from different regions in Italy. Despite her brief annoyance, she’s greatly relieved that Harry isn’t hurt, and that all in all it was a good day out for all of them. She remembers the way Helena had smiled when the crowd had cheered for Luke when he’d won his match today and thinks, _ yes, it’s been a good day. _

Harry is in good spirits, too, both literally and physically. He’s been downing bottles of wine like they’re filled with water, and has even tried a clear spirit from the East called _ vodka _ , brought to the palace by merchants from afar, which seems to make him more eager to get up on top of tables and dance. Without his mother or father here to chastise him, and an aunt who seems to enjoy some _ vodka _ as much as her nephew, Harry does whatever he wants. 

And for once, after seeing the huge grin on his face as he dances, Allie doesn’t try to stop him either.

Perhaps she should have, though, because once they get back to their bedchamber at the end of the night, Harry is so tipsy he has trouble walking. He has to lean onto her arm and have her guide him into the room _ and _have Allie help him remove his doublet and hose, thanks to the weakness in his arm.

“Do you think this will scar?” he asks after he is dressed for bed and Allie is, too, peering into the mirror and inspecting his marred skin. The candlelight reflects off the glass and casts golden shadows across his face. 

Allie passes by him and climbs into the bed, then watches as he sighs at his reflection and moves away from it, following her into bed, wobbling a little on unsteady, wine-drunk legs. “I’m no physician, but probably.”

“Does it make me look manly?” he asks with a quirked eyebrow, biting back a smile but failing miserably. 

“It makes you look like you got stabbed in the shoulder by a wooden stick.”

“Ha, ha.” He grins wide and she realises she’s grown fond of Harry and his boyish charm. She touches her fingers lightly to the cut on his left shoulder, tracing the length of it. 

“It does look sore,” she offers sympathetically.

“Do you think I’m brave?” he says with a wink, and it’s meant to be a joke but their faces are so close together, the heat of his body warming hers, that she can’t bring herself to laugh at it. Instead, she looks down at his lips, at his eyes, his lips, thinks _ could I? Should I? _

“Do you want me to think you’re brave?” Allie replies, trying to keep her voice light, but unable to pull her eyes away from his. She feels on edge, full of nerves, terrified of how her body is responding to his gaze.

And Harry — well, he’s golden-skinned and grinning, not quite drunk but almost there, a glassiness to his eyes, a looseness to his smile, a freedom she hasn’t seen in his face since she married him. 

“Oh, I want many things,” Harry says in a low voice. He leans in to touch his nose against her cheek, to press a lingering kiss to the skin below her ear, and to whisper in words that carry a slight slur, “I want you, Allie.” He brushes his hand across her shoulder, fingers catching on the ribbon ties of her sleeve, and below the sheets his body moves to press a bare knee to the side of her thigh. A breath catches in her throat, and she can’t form the words to reply, which is fine because he continues to speak. “You look so pretty all the time. I wish you’d let me kiss you.” And now she’s sure the wine has gone to his head. Sober, Harry would never say these kinds of things — not that she minds it particularly. Harry presses another kiss to her neck and murmurs, “Will you let me have you?” 

And it’s then she realises that she won’t be able to help herself, not when he looks like that with his wide eyes and soft red lips and skin that’s begging to be touched. She’s drawn to him. Always has been, one way or the other. 

She rapidly runs through a list of pros and cons in her head, trying to figure out if it will bring more harm than good for her to go through with this, to kiss him, to see where it takes them. On a base level, there is this: his body is warm, his mouth looks inviting, and it has to happen at some point, doesn’t it? Why not now?

And something else: she is not in love with him, but at this moment, it seems as close a possibility as it’s ever been. 

A decision is made in a split second, with his face hovering above hers, and once it’s decided, the action that follows is almost unconscious. She pushes quickly up to press her lips against his, and everything spirals from there.

His mouth falls open in an instant, and he kisses her with sloppy passion, the wine in his bloodstream not allowing him to withhold anything. They’ve only kissed once before — fast and chaste on their wedding day — and she’s pleased to find he’s good at it.

Wasting no time, he rolls on top of her and his hands, rough with fresh callouses, push up her skirt until it gathers around her waist, and then, while still kissing her deeply, he goes to pull down her undergarments. She lifts up her hips to help him, in turn pushing her body closer to his, eliciting a soft moan from his mouth. 

Then she’s lying almost naked, and her hands are untying his pants and pushing them down, and he’s sliding himself into her with a sigh, and it has all happened so quickly and rushed she has little time to think more about the consequences of this, the feelings they have or don’t have, the future of them together. But it still feels _ good _.

_ More than good, _ Allie thinks as they move together like they’ve done this so many times before, his forearms braced next to her head, her fingers in his hair. She arches her back off the bed and he groans into her mouth at the change in angle, a sound she feels strangely proud of, almost protective of. A fierce emotion rises up within her as she digs her fingernails into her husband’s back, her mouth falling open in a soft breath as he pushes up into her — an emotion that feels like _ no one will have him like this except for me _ — which is an alien feeling for Allie to have, but she has it nonetheless.

Harry is half-drunk and Allie isn’t in love but so far she’s happy with knowing that at least this part works, _ at least, _ and the tension in her body is building and building, muscles in her stomach and thighs becoming tauter and tauter—

Then the whole _ Harry-not-being-sober _ thing puts a damper on it all.

He finishes suddenly with a grunt, and then burps into her hair, giggles like a boy, and slides unceremoniously out of her, falling onto his back on the bed. 

And to think she’d _ actually _ been enjoying that. “Is that it?” she sighs, trying to ignore the discomfort that comes with being cut off right in the middle of sex, like her body is surprised and doesn’t know what to do. She’s still all hot and bothered. With another sigh, she pulls her undergarments back up and brings the blankets over them, settling in for the night after realising they’re not going to finish what they started.

“Yeah,” Harry says, turning to face her and reaching out to loop a blonde ringlet of hair around his finger. His face is flushed red, and even though she’s slightly mad at him for the way this has gone, she can’t deny that he looks sweet, all blissed out and happy. And likely still drunk. “Was it good for you?”

She smiles a close-lipped smile, leans over to kiss him quickly on the cheek, then blows out the candles on their bedside table. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He mumbles a reply, already half asleep, and throws an arm over her side so her back is pressed up against his front. Usually, she’d push him away and try to put as much distance between them as possible. Tonight, she doesn’t bother, and lets Harry pull her close. He starts to softly snore into her hair, and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him to be quiet. It’s almost nice that he’s so comfortable with her. She wonders if that will change again in the morning when he’s fully sober.

She lies awake for a long while, analysing the past couple weeks in her mind. Something happened to her after that joust, after today. Maybe it happened earlier--after that fox hunt, perhaps. Whenever it happened, something new began blossoming in her heart that wasn’t there when they left Paris two weeks ago. 

Something terrifying and perhaps quite beautiful.

* * *

The day they are to leave for Paris, a messenger relays some information to the Prince that complicates things terribly. 

At the gates of the Palais des Duc de Bourgogne, just as Allie has boarded the carriage that will take them on the three day trip back home, a harried-looking servant is brought to where the Prince waits to enter the carriage. On bended knee, the servant speaks to Harry, whose expression grows darker and darker as the conversation goes on. Allie can’t hear what they’re saying as the door to the carriage is closed, and her lip-reading skills aren’t exactly up to snuff, especially when they’re speaking French rather than English. She discreetly tried to press her ear against the side of the door and hears the words _ Duke, Paris _ and _ cousin _, but not much else.

Soon, the servant is being waved away and the door opens to reveal Harry entering the carriage with a concerned frown.

“What is it?” Allie asks urgently.

Harry clears his throat. “They say that your cousin, the Duke of York, is journeying to Paris and demands to see the King.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “It seems there is some internal English matter your father needs help with.”

“Sam?” she replies, a little breathless. She hadn’t seen her cousin--or any member of her family--for months now. And now he was coming to France? “What did he say it was about?” The matter must be serious to warrant such a journey from him instead of sending a letter.

“The messenger wasn’t very clear. Something to do with another cousin—uh, Christopher?”

“Campbell,” Allie sighs, dread filling her heart. Harry looks at her expectantly, brows furrowed. “There’s been some tension with the Duke of Lancaster and the rest of my family,” she clarifies. “A _ lot _ of tension, really. Campbell is...well, he’s not exactly a good person. He is ruthless. I honestly don’t know if he has an empathetic bone in his body.”

“Really?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised. “I haven’t heard much about him before.” The carriage begins to roll forward. They’re leaving Dijon now. The two of them take a break from conversation to lean out of the windows on the side of the carriage and wave at Aunt Fleur and other members of the household who have gathered to see them off.

“He’s the black sheep of the family,” Allie says as they move back inside. “He’s kept a low profile. Up until now, I guess.”

“What do you think he wants, then?”

“The kingdom. My father’s crown. Now that I am here, and my sister is--well, there’s no direct heir,” Allie shrugs. “It will go to one of his nephews. Campbell is older, but Sam is the favourite.”

“And so the Duke of York will be named heir, and Lancaster is left in the dust.”

“Exactly.” It’s refreshing to talk so openly with Harry about the complicated politics of her family. She will admit she was a little worried that he would be awkward with her, or vice versa, after their encounter the other night. He’s been neither more loving or less, just normal, which is actually quite a relief. Perhaps he really had been so drunk he hasn’t remembered, and maybe it’s best Allie leaves it at that. 

Which is not to say that she hasn’t thought about that night every day since it happened.

But that’s besides the point.

“My father was worried after I was betrothed to you that Campbell would mount some kind of attack on him. Propose some kind of coup,” she continues. “I didn’t think he was brave enough to actually make it happen.” Her voice wavers a little on the last phrase, a sudden anxiety for the wellbeing of her family and her father in particular striking her. Harry notices, and reaches out a gloved hand to gently touch her arm.

“Your father is the head of the strongest army in Europe,” he says with a reassuring smile. “He will not be taken down, if that is what your cousin wants to do.”

She smiles back. “An army even bigger than France?” she asks cheekily.

“Well, maybe second biggest,” he replies with a wink.

She laughs. “Alright. What will you do when the Duke of York gets to Paris, then?”

“I suppose I’ll meet with him,” Harry shrugs.

“Can I come with you?”

“No.” And just like that, the playful mood between them is killed. “It’s not proper for a lady to be involved in such things, especially a princess.”

That familiar anger flares up in Allie once again. “But why? My father always let myself and my sister sit in on meetings and supplications.”

“Does it look like I’m your father? Are we in England?” Allie balks at his condescending tone, and Harry must have realised his mistake at mocking his wife because he opens his mouth ready to rectify it. She cuts him off before he can.

“You know, I don’t understand you at all, Harry,” she bites. “One minute you’re kind, the next you’re cruel. You _ still _don’t have any respect for me.”

“That’s not true. I just—I can’t allow some things, _ bien _?” He reaches up to take off his hat and run a hand through his thick hair with a sigh.

“For whatever reason?”

“For the reason that that’s the way things are done here. Politics is a man’s business, according to my father.” He shakes his head and looks defeated, like he really can’t do anything about it. “That’s not to say I agree with it, but it’s the way it works.”

“But Sam is my cousin. Campbell is, too. This directly affects me and my family. You have to let me speak with him,” she replies, raising her voice in frustration.

“You may speak with your cousin, of course,” Harry says, raising his hands in surrender. “But I can’t allow you into the official meeting. I’m sorry, Allie.”

_ You’re a coward _ , she thinks, _ I thought you would know better than to cross me again. _ “You’re not sorry. But, fine.” She clenches her jaw, looks away from him out the window, and settles in for a long, silent journey back home.

And to think they had almost finished so well. She thought, stupidly, she may have even fallen in love with him a little bit on this trip. Now they’ve got to worry about a traitorous cousin threatening to take the English throne, and the deep chasm of miscommunication that has just opened up between them. 

_ What’s next? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lowkey feel like harry and allie are basically OC's right now........it's soooo hard to write them in character when the au is SO far beyond what the show is.....so i'm sorry if the characterisations are weird BUT i hope it's still a good story hahaha
> 
> i felt like jj abrams in TROS in this chapter --- by that i mean trying to fit as MANY plotlines as possible into a short space of time and hoping it all makes sense in the end.......newsflash it probably doesn't
> 
> anyway i hope you all liked this and that it was worth the wait ????? yeah yeah okay
> 
> come talk to me in the comments or on tumblr, as always !! @eliasantinis


	9. fighting with a true love is boxing with no gloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some jealousy, a few arguments, an awkward embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi folks i have been MIA bc i have been trying to survive my first term teaching high schoolers and ALSO trying not to die from coronavirus omGGGGG. i'm not in quarantine (my country hasn't got that bad yet) but have been practicing ~*~social distancing~*~ / staying on top of my school workload - which means more lazy days and more time to WRITE. finally sat down today and finished this chapter which had been half-finished for moooonths. 
> 
> enjoy more totally out of character hallie and a completely un-edited chapter
> 
> i hate this but i need to post SOMETHING so i hope it's still good LOL love u all stay safe w that virus out there guyz
> 
> song: 'afterglow'

There is a letter addressed to Allie waiting for her at Fontainebleau when they arrive home after their honeymoon. It is penned by the Duke of York and reads:

_ Princess Allison, my dearest cousin, _

_ There has been trouble at home. I am sure your husband has already been made aware that I am coming to Paris to speak with you both. In usual circumstances it would be alright to send only a letter like this, but I come to ask a favour that may have a better chance to be granted if I could see you both in person.  _

_ Selfishly, it means I get to see you again. We all miss you so much. _

_ I will quickly update you on the situation we have here. In person, I will talk with you and the Dauphin at length. You know that your cousin, my brother, the Duke of Lancaster has always been vocal about his desire to see himself on the throne when your father passes. He has only grown more insistent since your sister’s death, God rest her soul, and your recent marriage. But when before this was all talk, now his words have become dangerous. He has been steadily gathering support in the North and the West, building up an army that I assume he wants to use to take London and Westminster. He has been spoiling lords against me by convincing them that due to my condition, I would be unfit to be King.  _

_ I fear there could be civil war. I will not let that happen, and I know that you and your husband, as well as the King and Queen of France, would not see that come to fruition either. _

_ I trust your honeymoon was delightful. I hope Henry is treating you well. _

_ By the time you receive this letter, I shall already be on my way to Paris. I will see you in a matter of days. _

_ All my sincere love, _

_ The Duke of York, _

_ Your Sam. _

A letter like this, read in the privacy of Allie’s own suite in the palace one stormy Spring evening, makes her heart hurt. To think of the potential tragedy of having her beloved England torn apart by civil war--cousin against cousin, blood against blood--is terribly heartbreaking.

The uneasiness she feels at the prospect of war coming to her homeland is not helped by the uneasiness she has felt around Harry since returning from their honeymoon. Conversation has been so scarce between Harry and Allie since that argument in the carriage on the way home from Dijon. They have barely spoken in the past few days, each giving each other the cold shoulder and refusing to talk about it. 

And now they are at an impasse: Allie doesn’t want to communicate with a husband who doesn’t respect her, and Harry doesn’t want to spend time with a wife who is in a bad mood. So, instead of being the adults they technically are and talking about their issues, they continue to ignore each other. 

Except there’s something in her—a large part, actually—that  _ wants  _ to communicate with Harry. Wants to make him laugh, hear his voice telling her she looks beautiful, even how he sounds when he’s teasing her about something stupid. She’s getting to the point where she’d rather have an argument with him than wake up in silence for another day and spend all her time trying to avoid him and his friends until dinner time.

But it’s not like he doesn’t deserve a fight, right? She hates the way he shamelessly flirts with some of the women at the palace. He makes Allie feel almost like a fool, the way he looks at them, dances with them, laughs with them. He walks with Lady Kelly in the garden sometimes. Allie has tried to convince herself that it’s because they’re friends, and just because she’s ended up with him doesn’t mean he’s going to drop everyone from his past life. But she can’t deny the inkling she has that there is still an ongoing affair between her husband and Sara’s handmaiden, and she certainly can’t deny the way thinking about such a thing makes her gut twist up in uncomfortable ways.

Allie does consider that there may be no affair. She considers that she may just be lonely, and jealous for no reason. 

She fights him about it anyway.

The afternoon she decides she wants an argument, she goes searching for Harry and finds him eating fruit under the peach tree in the palace garden, lounging in the shade with Lords Jason and Luke. She straightens her back as she walks towards him, steeling her jaw with purpose. Jason sees her coming first and nudges Harry. Her husband then tips back the edge of his hat, locks eyes with hers, and sits up.

“I want to speak with you,” she says, straight to the point. 

Harry turns to throw a smug smile over his shoulder at his two friends, who both chuckle ominously. “Alright, Princess,” he replies, throwing away his peach pit and pushing himself up to standing. Without another word, she turns to walk away, and she knows he’s following her based on the sound of footsteps on grass -- and the feeling of his presence at her back.

She leads him to an alcove in a secluded corner of the gardens and sits down on the stone seat hidden inside the shelter. Harry sits beside her and as the seat is small, his right knee rests against the side of her gown-covered thigh. She ignores that familiar twisted-up feeling in her gut, passing it off as anger. She also ignores the electricity that crackles in the air between them, passing it off as a sign that it will rain soon (even as there’s barely a cloud in the sky).

“You look like you’re in the mood for a fight,” Harry says first, turning his head to face her. She flicks her gaze once to meet his, then finds it’s too intense to look at him and say what she wants to say. She focuses instead on an oak tree that stands not too far in front of them.

She clears her throat. “You guessed right.”

She hears him sigh, and then watches out of the corner of her eye as he leans back in the seat, slinging an arm across the back of it, fingers barely brushing her shoulder. He’s so relaxed, so carefree. Like he knows this will be something trivial. Like he knows she can’t be mad at him for long. (He’d be right. They’ve been existing in practical silence for the past few days, and she’s held a grudge with no problem all that time. But now -- face to face -- she’ll crumble, and he seems to know it.) “Let’s get this over with, then. What is it?”

“You spend too much time with Lady Kelly.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realises how pathetic they sound, and wants to swallow them back up.

“Oh? Are you jealous now, Princess?” he leers. “Is that it? _ ” _

“I’m not!” she scowls. A blush rises in her cheeks. The bark of the oak tree suddenly looks very interesting. “I just don't think it's proper.”

“And since when have you ever cared about being proper?”

This sets her off, makes her blood boil, for whatever reason. Maybe she's tired. Maybe she  _ is  _ jealous. She turns her body towards him, squares her jaw, braces for the anger that’s about to flow out of her. “You are such a boy!” she hisses. “You are selfish and arrogant. How do you expect me to love or even to  _ respect  _ you when you act like this?” She’s all but wagging a finger in front of his face. “You are making a fool out of me, and you don’t even  _ care _ .” And she actually doesn’t care if she sounds pathetic, or whiny, or any of those things, because she’s frustrated and pissed off and she feels like she has a right to be.

He studies her face for one long moment. Then, suddenly, he looks away. The oak tree seems to be of interest to him now, too. His jaw twitches, like he is clenching it, or chewing on something. Mulling over a thought. Then, he says, completely unprompted: “I stopped sleeping with her the moment you arrived.”

“Really?” And  _ oh _ , does she hate how breathless her voice sounds. He looks at her again, jaw still tight.

“Really,” he says between clenched teeth, like he is loathe to admit it. Whether the part he hates is telling her of his affair or disappointment that he had to call an end to it remains to be seen.

She won’t let him off easy. “Your choice, or hers?” Allie bites.

He pauses, then replies honestly, “...Hers.”

“ _ Oh _ , well,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “That tells me a lot, then, doesn’t it?”

Now it’s his turn to look sour. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

They’re facing each other now, both with hostile expressions and arms crossed. Here is the fight she’d been wanting. Only now, looking at his handsome face and thinking of him in bed with that beautiful Lady Kelly, she wishes she never brought it up. And it makes her even angrier. “That you only seem to think about sex, no matter who you’re with!” she exclaims, gesticulating wildly. “Who you’re  _ married _ to! That you would have shamed me and continued to have an affair with that  _ woman _ even after we had made our vows before God! Even after we--” she falters, thinking of that night on their honeymoon, when they were one for a delightful moment and everything felt like it was right. He interjects before she can finish the sentence.

“That  _ woman _ is a righteous, wonderful woman,” he hisses back. “Kelly fought against me to stop our affair because she didn’t want you to get hurt. Isn’t that nice? So self-sacrificial?”  _ Kelly _ . She hates the way he says her name so familiarly. She hates it, hates it,  _ hates it _ . “You  _ owe _ her for that, because if she hadn’t stopped it, you  _ would _ be shamed. And don’t pretend like you are so high and mighty. I hear you whispering that man’s name in your sleep.  _ Will, Will, oh, Will! _ You think I’m not smart enough to realise that if you had the option, if your precious Will was here in France, you’d be carrying on with him like I had with Kelly?” 

Her breath catches in her throat at the name of the man she loved. It feels like so long ago, and yesterday, all at once. “Don’t you dare mention his name--”

Harry’s shouting now. “Then don’t come charging at me with accusations about infidelity! Kelly is in the past. You are my  _ wife _ .” She inhales sharply. It’s not often he refers to her so soundly and firmly as that title. “Fucking women is not all I think about, Allie,” he continues, lowering his voice slightly. She recoils a little at his profanity. “I’m not some kind of monster. I care about things. About people.” It’s at this point they both realise how close their faces and bodies are to each other. If she leant a few inches forward, her lips would be meeting his. He pulls away first, rubbing a hand over his face, closing his eyes with a disgruntled sigh. 

Seeing him so on fire, so passionate about something, even if he’s fighting with her...it stirs something in her chest. Something dark and dangerous. She briefly, sinfully, imagines herself leaning forward and pressing her lips against his again, and he would open his mouth and kiss her back, and they’d rush to their bedchambers and fall onto the blankets, and in no time she’d have him groaning  _ Allie, Allie, Allie… _

She shakes her head to rid herself of that ridiculous daydream, and sighs herself. A cool breeze rushes past the alcove and she looks up to the sky to find that dark clouds really are rolling in. It looks like rain.  _ Fitting _ , she thinks.

After a minute, she turns her attention back to Harry next to her. He’s watching the clouds, too.

“I just don’t want you to dishonour me,” she says in a voice stronger than she feels. 

“I won’t,” he replies, meeting her gaze again. “I wouldn’t.” Although it truly is about to rain, she knows she can no longer pass off the tension that lies between them as pre-thunderstorm static. 

“I am your wife, remember, and one day I will rule beside you as your Queen,” she says, chin tipped defiantly up towards him. Then, in a flash of rare vulnerability, she admits in a whisper, “I don’t want you to favour her over me.”

Harry softens — his eyes, body, face. He reaches over and takes her left hand — the one with a shining gold band on one finger — in his. “I don’t,” he replies. “I could never.”

Then, slowly and purposefully, he turns the hand he holds over so her palm is facing up, then bends his head to press a lingering kiss to the centre of it. Her heart jumps. He folds her fingers closed over her palm, squeezing her hand once, then lets her go. Without another word, he stands up and walks away, hands clasped behind his back, the first spittles of spring afternoon rain colouring the red of his jacket a dark maroon.

* * *

Allie receives a message from a servant that Lady Becca is again unable to accompany the princess to dinner that night. While walking towards the dining hall, arm in arm with Lady Helena, Allie expresses her frustration at a lack of information about her lady and concern for her wellbeing.

“No one will tell me what’s going on,” she complains, skirts swishing against the cobblestones as they shuffle quickly through the hallway. “She’s been sick for weeks, yes? Well, what is she sick with? What’s wrong? And why will no one tell me?” Helena is awkwardly silent beside her. “I haven’t seen her in days. I don’t understand.”

“She’s—“ Helena starts, her face twisting into an uncomfortable-looking grimace. “Oh, Allie,” she sighs. “It may be best if you saw Becca in person.” Her voice drops on the last line, practically whispering.

A lump forms in Allie’s throat. _ “ _ What do you mean?” she asks, already afraid of the answer. She stops in her tracks and tugs on Helena’s arm. “Helena, please, don’t tell me it’s—“

The look on her face says it all. Everything comes rushing back to Allie: Lord Jason always hanging around, whisking Becca off to dark corners of the palace, dancing with her far too close. But Becca wouldn’t have let that happen, surely? She was a lady. Highborn, cultured, well-mannered. Not the kind of woman who gets herself into trouble like this. “I’m afraid so,” Helena concludes, eyes downcast.

Allie curses under her breath. “Right,” she says, gathering her skirts in her hands and steeling her jaw. “That’s it. Send a servant to tell Harry we’ll be late to dinner. I need to see Becca.”

She turns to march down the other end of the hallway, moving as fast as she can towards Becca and Helena’s bedchambers, the latter’s heeled slippers clopping on the floor behind Allie as Helena races to keep up. 

The guards outside Becca’s bedchamber must see the frantic look on the princess’ face and so quickly open the doors for her to fly through without saying a word. Allie pauses at the edge of the bed, Helena right behind her. The doors close. It’s only the three of them and one nursemaid inside. 

Becca looks tiny. Enveloped by the heavy bedcovers, only her head peeking out the top, eyes closed. 

“Becca?” Allie whispers. The girl’s eyes flutter open. She smiles.

“Allie.”

The young woman has somehow become one of her dear friends, and Allie’s heart aches with empathy for her. To see her friend, pale and shaking under the bed covers, tears in her eyes, Allie knowing there’s nothing she can do to help but hold her hand and promise it will get better -- her heart breaks. 

Over and over it breaks. In this godforsaken country. Under this godforsaken French blue sky. Allie’s heart is broken into pieces and stitched back together time and time again only for Harry’s hands or Becca’s eyes or a letter from home to rip fresh the wounds. 

She is tired. So tired.

“Oh, Becca, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I don’t know how I missed this,” she says, voice hushed, moving forward towards the bed and reaching out to run the back of her hand across the girl’s sweat-slicked forehead. 

“It’s alright, my lady,” Becca replies, a small smile stretching cracked lips. “You’ve just been married. You have plenty of other things to worry about.”

“But this should have been more important. Your health is more important,” Allie soothes. “I want you to get better. For me. For you. For the--the baby.” Her gaze flits down to the place under the covers where Becca’s swelling belly would lie. “Are you--?”  _ Keeping it? _ she tries to say, but struggles to get the words out.

“I am.”

“And Lord Jason? Will he marry you?”

“No. He is already betrothed to someone else back in England. I knew that from the beginning. I was never in love with him. Just lonely.” Her eyes take on a faraway look, and she sighs. “No,” she says decisively. “No marriage.” After a pause, she sighs again and saying, “Do you know that I bought--I bought herbs from Madame Bouchard in Mante-la-Jolie--”

Allie cuts her off. “Oh, Becca, really? Please don’t tell me you went by yourself. Did Jason come with you?”

Becca shakes her head, loose dark hair falling across her face. “It was something I could only do on my own. But-- I couldn’t go through with it, Allie. As I was walking home that night, I threw them in the Seine. I couldn’t do it. I can’t help it,” she admits in a watery voice.

“You’re going to be a good mother, my lady,” Allie says, her heart swelling ten times its size. She reaches over to envelop one of Becca’s small hands in hers. “You will.”

“Thank you, Allie.”

“Please, get well soon.”

“I’ll try my best.” 

Seeing that Becca seems very tired, Allie decides to take her leave. She leans over to press a quick kiss to her lady’s cheek, squeezes her hand three times to say  _ I love you _ , and leaves the room with a quiet swish of her skirts, taking the arm of Helena to steady herself on her way out.

Helena and Allie arrive to dinner late to find the court has been sat waiting for them the entire time. Helena makes a beeline for Luke, who stands up to greet the young woman with a wide grin on his face. Harry, on the other hand, stays seated, choosing instead to stare pointedly at her while languidly chewing on a chicken leg.

At least he still has the decency to push her chair out for her before she sits down.

“I see you started without me,” Allie observes, beginning to tuck into her own now-cold meal of meat and potatoes. 

“Well, you  _ were  _ an hour late,” comes Harry’s icy reply.

Allie has more self-respect than to get in a fight with her husband at the dinner table, surrounded by twenty other courtiers and numerous servants. She sighs and then quietly chews down her own meal. 

The food has no flavour. Well, maybe it does, only Allie can’t taste it. Her mouth is dry, her chest hollow, her mind racing, thinking about how she failed to keep Becca safe and trying to figure out what she should do next. The most obvious thing would be to ask Becca to go back to Madame Bouchard and grind up those herbs into a tea for her to drink. It’s what every other young lady she knows has done when they get into trouble like this. But Becca wants to keep it, and maybe that’s an admirable thing. Maybe that’s the right thing to do, to give that baby life and Becca the chance to be a mother. She would be a good mother. But where would she keep the baby? She doesn’t want to marry Lord Jason -- and who could blame her, really. Perhaps Allie could arrange a marriage between Becca and another courtier. The Duke of  Valois is recently widowed and is still relatively young, so he could be a potential husband. There’s no way Becca could keep the child and live as a single woman. That leaves marriage or--

“What’s going on with you tonight?” Harry whispers, reaching down to rest a hand on Allie’s knee to stop it from shaking. She hadn’t even been aware she had been doing so. She didn’t even realise she was nervous.

Allie clears her throat before speaking. “What do you mean?”

“You seem...on edge,” he says, voice empty of the cold it had earlier. “Your leg keeps bumping mine under the table, like you can’t keep it still.”

She doesn’t want to meet his eyes, because she knows the second she looks into that handsome young face, she will spill the truth out to him -- and she’s pretty sure Becca wouldn’t want that. Her gaze continues to be focused only on her food. “Becca is unwell,” she answers vaguely. 

“I’m aware,” Harry scoffs, biting into another piece of meat. “I’ve barely seen her since we left for Dijon. We should get you another lady in waiting. She’s useless.” 

Oh, but slander against her lady she cannot stand. “She’s pregnant,” Allie blurts out in a harsh whisper. 

“She’s what?” Harry hisses, brows knitting tight together. “ _ Mon Dieu _ . Jason,  _ ce batard! _ ”

“Harry!”

“What?”

“Watch your language.” They’ve graduated above a whisper, now. A few people at the table are staring at them. Harry smiles and waves at them, always cheeky, and chows down on another potato. Allie has to hide a grin of her own. Even in the middle of a heated discussion, he can make her laugh. Her relationship with him is so love-hate, it’s ridiculous.

“I don’t exactly care about my language right this second,” Harry mutters back after the eavesdroppers have turned away. “That idiot-- I told him--”

“Well,” Allie interrupts. “The deed’s been done, hasn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he sighs. “Has she-- is she--”

“She’s keeping it.”

“ _ Mon Dieu! _ ” he groans. “Is she a madwoman, wanting to raise a bastard child?” Allie discreetly pinches his thigh to tell him to shut up and after uttering a muffled yelp of pain, he bats her hand away and says, “Yes, yes, I know.  _ Pardon _ . But what does she expect? She must marry Jason. And if not him, someone else, and soon.”

“Harry,” she pleads under her breath. “Don’t force her to marry someone she doesn’t love.”

Up until this point, he’d been pushing his leftover food around his plate in frustration. Now, the fork stills. “Oh. Like you did with me?” He sounds...offended? Sad? She can’t place it. It twists her stomach up in knots.

“That’s not-- that’s not what I meant.” She gently rests her hand on his thigh, right over the place she’d pinched in jest, and sighs. “Let’s talk about this later tonight. Just eat your dinner.”

She watches Harry’s jaw clench once, twice, then he raises his head and flashes her an empty smile. “Fine,” he replies. Then his attention is drawn away from her to across the table, where Clark is stupidly attempting to balance an apple on his nose. Harry laughs at his friend and Allie is forgotten at the end of the table, left to quietly finish her meal and let the events of this evening and potential solutions to Becca’s problem tumble, tumble, tumble around her head.

* * *

The mood is sombre when Allie and Harry return to their chamber late in the evening to get ready for bed. He hasn’t spoken another word to her tonight, nor her to him. The conversation about Becca has returned their relationship to ice, like it was after coming home from Dijon. 

She hates it.

“We shouldn’t go to bed mad at each other,” Allie first says, breaking the silence, as she brushes out knots in her curly hair in front of the fire. One of the chambermaids had lit it an hour or so ago, meaning it was nothing more than smouldering embers now. Still, it gave off enough warmth to be comfortable. Even in May, it gets chilly in the evenings, and a fire is welcome. 

“Is that what you’re saying now?” Harry’s voice comes from his place behind her, getting dressed at the edge of the bed. There’s the sound of falling fabric hitting the floor, and if she had the guts to turn around, she’d probably get an eyeful of his naked chest, and maybe more. The thought of that makes her blush. She stays staring into the fire, pulling her hairbrush through her curls. “You haven’t seemed to mind us going to bed angry every other night,” he teases, but it comes out a little hollow, like he really is upset about something.

Allie chooses to ignore this. Especially when, clothed in only his undergarments, Harry moves to pick up a piece of firewood and throw it in the fire. Sparks and flames erupt from the ashes, lighting up his face from where he sits crouched in front of the fire. His nose looks sharper in the shadows, and the cupid’s bow of his lips is highlighted in deep orange, and if she wasn’t so bone-tired she’d ask him to move because he was blocking the heat, but something in her wants him to stay. Wants to keep looking at him.

“We should talk,” she repeats. “I won’t be able to sleep until we talk.”

He swings his head around to look at her over his shoulder. “Fine,” he says, echoing the last words he spoke at dinner. “Fine,” he says again, twisting now to sit down cross-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace, body facing hers, naked chest in shadow. “What do you want to say?”

“I can’t see Becca married off to someone she doesn’t want. And that’s not--” she shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut for just a few seconds. “That’s not a dig at you. Please know that. I just-- I want the best for her, and I--”

Seeing that she’s struggling for words, Harry does the merciful thing and interrupts her. “I know, Allie, I know. Just tell me what your plan is for this girl.”

She sits down on the warm floor, crossing her legs to be a mirror image of her husband. Sitting in such a way makes the both of them look so young. She supposes that’s what they are, though. Just kids. 

She sets the hairbrush on the ground beside her and folds her hands into her lap, pinching her thumb and forefingers together to keep them from shaking. She’s nervous he’ll say no. When she finally opens her mouth, the words fall out of it in a torrent. “We could make her child our ward,” she says. “It’s easy enough. Becca will be able to look after her child at the palace like normal. It would save her reputation, and when she marries one day, she can take the child back into her care.”

He stares at her for a long moment, just thinking, then reaches up to scratch behind his ear. “I’m not sure if I--”

She can’t handle him saying no. She doesn’t see any other option for Becca. He has to agree. “Harry, please,” she interjects before he can say much else. “I don’t ask much of you. I am aware this is a significant request but-- if you love me even just a little, you’d—“

“And who says I love you, eh?”

_ Christ. _ What does she say? What does she do? She feels like a rat caught in a trap in the kitchens back in London, head pinned down, legs flailing around, pathetically trying to escape but with no real way out. 

Harry’s just looking at her, head tilted to one side, and she wishes she could see the expression on his face but it’s all in shadow. Is he serious? Teasing? 

She opens and closes her mouth like a fish sputtering for air. “I--I--”

Harry laughs.  _ Laughs _ . Like he’s enjoying making her squirm. She half wants to tell him off and half wants to cry.  _ Christ, this is so embarrassing. _ Before she can form a proper word, he speaks in a tone that doesn’t sound as teasing as before. “Okay. If you can promise that Becca will look after the child and it will be gone as soon as she is married, then we can take the baby in as our ward.” 

“Thank you!” she exclaims, and the combination of frazzled nerves and relief sends her tumbling into his lap, her arms thrown haphazardly around his neck. “ _ Merci, merci beaucoup! _ ”

He’s startled at her surprise embrace at first, but soon leans into it, wrapping his arms around her middle and tugging her closer to him, burying his face in her hair. She squeezes him tight, the hollowness in her chest gone now that they have found a solution for Becca’s problem. Then, the adrenaline and rush of blood to her head retreats. She opens her eyes to see the fire burning in front of her, feels Harry’s arms around her, and remembers where she is and what she’s doing.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-- I was just--” she mumbles, a plethora of half-assed apologies and excuses falling from her lips as she clambers awkwardly out of his lap. She quickly stands up, grabs the hairbrush from its spot on the floor and moves to the other side of the room pretending like she’s preoccupied with finding a place for the brush to live rather than trying to get as far away from Harry’s warm hands and soft skin and sweet-smelling hair as possible.

She sets the brush down next to their wash basin and, without looking at Harry, climbs into bed and tucks herself under the covers. While the room is warm from the fire, the heat on her cheeks is most definitely from embarrassment, not temperature. She can’t let him see her blush.

Over the top of the blankets, she spares a glance at the young man still sitting in front of the fire. She watches him rub a hand over his face, push back his floppy dark hair, and stand up with a sigh. To his credit, he doesn’t immediately say anything when he gets into bed beside her. 

Harry blows out the candle and the room is plunged into darkness, save for the soft flickering of the fire. Neither of them says anything for a long time, and Allie thinks she may have got away with not having to talk with him until tomorrow when the awkwardness of tonight can be forgotten, until he whispers a hushed, “Goodnight, Allie.”

“Goodnight,” she whispers back, and the room falls into silence once again.

For hours and hours, Allie lies without sleep, her mind racing like it did earlier that day, but this time not with thoughts of Becca and her baby but of coarse hair on strong arms, smooth skin at the base of a neck, and the perfect feeling of her body intertwining with another’s in an embrace so perfect she’s scared to do such a thing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this make ANY SENSE??? no??? but do i love writing it/? YES
> 
> i also just realised covid-19 means production on the society s2 will be delayed so we won't get s2 for so LOOOOONG. i'm salty. fck u coronavirus


	10. i love you, ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a family visit, a letter, a promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry it's been so long but i FINALLY got this chapter written !!! and it's actually not that shitty (i think) YAY! i've been too busy being OBSESSED with outer banks....go stream on netflix rn i promise it will alleviate your pain of having to wait even longer for a second season of the society #thanksalotcovid
> 
> only 3 more chapters to go, then an epilogue....dun dun dunnnnnnnn
> 
> title from 'cruel summer' (isn't it the best line??? fits hallie SO WELL)

Three days after she receives his letter, Sam, the Duke of York, arrives at Fontainebleau. Allie, having watched his convoy of covered wagons and horses advancing from far off, had rushed down to the gate to greet him.

“Sam!” she shouts as soon as she sees him step down from his horse, his auburn hair distinguishing him instantly from the rest of the crowd. “Sam!” she yells again, and this time it gets his attention. He pulls his hat from his head and with a wide smile jogs over to where she stands at the entrance to the palace. 

Sam envelops Allie in a tight hug, disregarding any rules on how he should be greeting a princess. Allie squeezes him back hard and tucks her face into his shoulder. She’s so happy, she could cry. She’s filled with relief at seeing someone from home -- a feeling she didn’t even know she was craving until this very moment.

“It’s so good to see you, Sam,” Allie signs after pulling away from his embrace. “It really is so good.” 

“And even better to see you, my cousin,” Sam signs back. 

God, she’s missed him and his sweet smile. Allie and Sam had practically grown up as siblings as they were the same age, playing together in the gardens and riding their ponies in the afternoons when Sam’s family came to London for summers. She cared so much about him, and had grown up almost like his protector against his older brother. It was not easy for him, being a deaf child, and even harder with a brother as cruel as Campbell. Thankfully, his parents -- Allie’s mother’s sister and her husband, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester -- were good natured and kind people. If Sam was just any ordinary person, he would have been left abandoned on the streets as soon as his parents figured out he was deaf, or accused of being possessed by some kind of demon. Thankfully, his parents’ influence and wealth meant that he was able to grow up with a reasonably normal lifestyle.

And now he’s the Duke of York, next in line to the throne of England, and one of the most powerful men in Britain. 

Lord Gareth, Sam’s companion and partner, appears beside him with a big smile. He bows gracefully, even though he’s over six feet tall and not small in the slightest. “My lady,” he says in that warm tone of his. Allie bats him away and pulls him in for a hug.

“It’s good to see you, Grizz,” she says into the crook of his neck, the familiar nickname rolling off her tongue with ease. “I suppose you’re here to see my husband?” She asks, standing back to look at the two of them with a raised eyebrow. 

Still slightly annoyed at the fact that she won’t be allowed into the meeting, Allie leads them into the palace and into the inner chambers where Sam and Grizz will meet with Harry and his father. Before he steps inside, Sam hands her a sealed envelope. 

“From your mother,” he signs with a smile. She takes the paper with a trembling hand. It’s been so long since she’s had communication with her parents. She wonders what her mother has to say.

Just as the heavy wooden doors to the chamber close behind Sam, Allie spies Harry sitting at his father’s right hand at the end of the grand table. To her surprise, he meets her eye and flashes her a small apologetic smile, as if he’s silently saying _ I’m sorry you couldn’t be a part of this, it’s out of my hands _. The doors slam shut and Allie is left standing in the hallway, letter clutched in her fist.

Alone now -- having given Helena the afternoon off to spend with Luke -- Allie opens the letter while she walks back to her bedchambers. Her mother’s loopy scrawl reads:

_ My dearest Allie, _

_ I thought I should inform you that your servant boy Will has recently married a handmaid here at the palace. I found out through one of my servants. Still only you and I know about your affair. Your secret is, and always will be, my darling, safe with me. _

_ Your cousin is preparing to leave for Paris as I write this letter. Listen to what he says. It has been difficult for your father here with the Duke of Lancaster. We may all be in danger. Do whatever you can to persuade your husband’s family to send us troops to help, should we need them. I pray every day that we will not. _

_ Speaking of your husband, I trust that your marriage is going well and you are learning to love him as best you can and doing your duty as wife to the future King of France. I am so proud of you. _

_ All my love, _

_ Mama. _

Allie tries to take in the warning the Queen had given her about the potential danger of her cousin, but nothing except the first few lines of the letter stick with her after reading.

Will is married.

Will is _ married. _

She sounds the phrase out, testing the words and how they fit in her mouth. “_ Will is married. Will is a husband,” _ she whispers to herself as she opens the door to her bedchamber and slips inside. The words sound strange to say, but Allie finds there is very little emotion behind them. 

She doesn’t erupt into tears. There are no feelings of frustration or regret or anger. No, the only thing she feels, she thinks as she sits down at the edge of her bed, is relief. 

There is no Will to miss anymore. She can let him go. He belongs to someone else now.

A few months ago, a letter like this would have crushed her completely. Will was her first love, and the boy she thought she’d love for the rest of her life, nevermind her marriage to someone else. It’s only upon reading through the letter again that Allie realises she hasn’t thought about Will in weeks. She is happy for him. _ Beyond _ happy, she thinks with a smile. He deserves someone good to love and to be loved by.

There is relief in letting him go. 

She folds up the letter, slides it back into its envelope, and tucks it under a stack of books in the corner of her room. Although she’d rather not give Harry the opportunity to read about her private life in England, she knows that at some point she will get homesick again, and it will be nice to see the words _ all my love, Mama _ written on that page.

She gets herself ready for lunch, relishing in the quiet of her bedroom and the short time she’s allowed to be alone in a world where she’s watched over by someone every second of the day.

* * *

Allie doesn't sit with her husband at dinner. That privilege is reserved for their guests. From a few seats down from the end of the table, Allie watches the three men have a conversation in which Sam is signing animatedly, Grizz is interpreting, and Harry has the most earnest look on his face as he tries to keep up.

She hasn’t had a chance to ask Sam how the meeting with Harry and the King played out as they had been in conversation since she left them earlier that day. She has so many questions: how serious, really, is the threat Campbell poses to her father’s throne? What will happen if the Duke of Lancaster stages a coup and overthrows her father?

Has her marriage to Harry proved strong enough to broker peace between these two countries that were previously at war for a century? Has she done enough? Has it all been worth it? Will France send troops and money to support her family, or will the fact that she is not in love with her husband -- nor he with her -- ruin the alliance and everything else?

(This last thought feels sour, and perhaps no longer quite true.)

These thoughts toss around her mind like leaves in the wind. She takes a long sip of wine in an attempt to quench her nerves.

A voice from beside her pulls out of her reverie. “Harry likes you, you know.”

Allie almost spits out her wine. “What?” she exclaims, turning around to find Sara with her eyebrows raised and a sly grin stretched across her pretty face. Had she been watching Allie as she was, in turn, watching Harry? “I wasn’t-- how did you--?”

The younger girl laughs. “I saw you staring at him. You’re not very subtle, are you?” she jokes.

Allie is almost too embarrassed to respond. “I don’t-- he doesn’t _ like _ me. Not like that. We’re-- we’re friends,” she explains, although the words sound a little pathetic leaving her mouth. 

Her sister-in-law giggles again and spears a roast potato with her fork, popping it into her mouth. “He does! I know it. I can see it in the way he looks at you,” she says in between chews, and Allie’s heart leaps in all the worst ways. “Also, you’re married. It shouldn’t be weird to discuss if your husband has a _ crush _ on you or not.” By the way Sara says this (and gently nudges her elbow), Allie knows it’s meant to be a joke. That doesn’t stop it from feeling very personal.

She tries to hide this by joking back, asking, “And how, pray tell, does he look at me?”

Sara’s eyes go comically wide and she replies in a breathy, put-upon voice, “Like you’re the centre of his _ whole _universe.”

“No, he does not,” Allie scoffs, then moves Sara’s goblet of wine away from her. “Also, I think you’ve had too much wine.”

“I think I’ve had just the right amount of wine, thank you very much!” Sara retorts, playfully stealing the goblet back and taking a sip from it. “Okay, maybe he doesn’t look at you like that exactly,” Sara continues with mirth in her voice. “Maybe it’s more like-- like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or curse you.”

_ Like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or curse you. _

Allie could take this as a joke. Sara certainly meant her to. But now, as she looks across the table once again to glance at Harry’s smiling, eager face as he talks to her cousin, she lets herself feel the myriad of complicated emotions that arise within her when she thinks about him. And she wonders if it’s really _ Allie _ that can’t make up her mind about the situation.

And she wonders if it’s about time she did.

* * *

After dinner, there is music and dancing to commemorate the arrival of the Englishmen. Allie joins in for a while, dancing with ladies and Sara to the upbeat jig the musicians play, and once with Harry. When the song is over, Allie pulls away from him and goes to sit back at the table. His hand on her forearm stops her. She turns around.

“Come for a walk with me in the garden?” he asks her, voice low, a small smile on his face. For some reason, she feels nervous and wants to say no.

“It’s dark, Harry,” she says, deadpan, instead. 

He shakes his head with a chuckle. “No it’s not. We have the moon to guide us,” he says, gesturing to the world outside that she can see glimpses of through the banquet halls stained glass windows.

Her lips tip up into a smirk without her even realising. “You sound like those awful poets your mother likes so much. How very _ romantic _ .” Perhaps it had been _ her _ , not Sara, who had too much wine because is she _ joking _ with him?

Harry recognises the jest for what it is and bites his bottom lip to keep from breaking out into an even wider smile. His hand is still resting on her forearm, heavy and comforting through the fabric of her long-sleeved gown. “Just-- come with me, will you?” he pleads, and his eyes are so beautifully deep and brown she can’t say no.

Like many things about Harry do these days, she’s surprised with how easy it is to walk arm-in-arm with him out of the hall and into the cool of the night. And it really is cool -- she shivers at the colder air and Harry tugs her closer into his side.

They walk down the rows of flowers, vines, and trees, not saying anything, warming each other with body heat and the feeling of being alone together. It’s comfortable. Nice, even.

When they reach the spot in the secluded alcove where they had sat and argued with each other a few days earlier, they both open their mouths to speak at the same time. Harry shakes his head with a short laugh and gestures for Allie to go first.

She smiles and sits down. Harry follows her. Again, she becomes hyper-aware of the feeling of his knee against hers. “How was your meeting with my cousin?” she asks, trying her best to appear nonchalant. 

“The Duke of York will be leaving France in a few days time,” he answers after a moment of thought, and his answer is so cryptic Allie immediately replies with a barrage of questions.

“Have you decided to help him? Have you decided to help my father? You have to send troops with him back home, Harry, you don’t know what Campbell is capable of--”

“Allie, stop worrying,” he interrupts, and rests his hand over hers. “We’re helping England. Don’t worry.”

“Really?” she sighs, only now realising how stressed she’d been feeling about the whole situation. 

“Really.” His warm grip on her hand tightens. “A thousand French men will join the Duke of York on his journey home, with a promise for more if needed.”

She ducks her head and plays with the hem of her cape with her free hand. “You didn’t have to do that on account of me.”

“Allie, of course I did. You’re my wife. Your family is my family.” He squeezes her hand once, then stands up to walk over and inspect one of the flowering rose bushes near their seat. She shivers at the loss of contact, and at the respect and kindness that shone through his words.

She’s been questioning her feelings about Harry all day. All week. All the past few months since they met. And it’s all so bloody _ frustrating. _

None of this is fair. None of this was her choice. This man, this relationship, this country, was thrown upon her so suddenly, and she was expected to like it. To be grateful. To think of it as an honour, instead of being the second-best thing the French could get to Princess Cassandra. She was expected to love this man, take care of him, support him, birth a healthy tribe of little babies for him as soon as possible. Make her family — the same family who cast her aside as soon as they could — as proud as can be. The entire time she’s been here in France, Allie has actively pushed against these unfair choices and made it clear to anyone who will listen that she’s not just the Dauphin’s wife, she’s a Crown Princess in her own right. 

This is why it feels like such a defeat when, as she watches the man she has tried so hard to reject flash her a genuine smile and hand her a flower he picked himself, something sinks in her chest and she thinks, _ I just couldn’t help myself, could I? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooo grizz and sam nice to FINALLY see you
> 
> also the whole time i was writing this i was like UGh allie you stupid idiot you are OBVIOUSLY in love with harry by now why are you so STUBBORN not to realise it and then i was like ....... i'm the one WRITING this shit omg

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @jjmaybank and scream w me in my dms about hallie


End file.
